


I Only Want to be the Sun for You

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Breastfeeding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Killing, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mild Gore, Mpreg, Mpreg Kink, Murder, Post Mpreg, Protective Instincts, Rough Sex, Smut, Squirting, Violence, animal shifting, chris and tom have sex in very many places and at very many times, chris does not ask tom's permission every times they have sex, descriptions of live birth, fairy tale AU, fairy tale sequel, hiddlesworth au, killing to protect, no written contract for aforementioned consent, scenes of animal butchering, this is fantasy, with magical elements, without verbal consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire". </p><p>Chris and Tom adjust to the preternatural presence of the woods and its influence on their lives.</p><p>"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately." ~Henry David Thoreau<br/>"Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows." Rainer Maria Rilke<br/>"We write our own fairy tales, my love." ~Lestat de Lioncourt</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Want to be the Sun for You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This took me longer than usual to write, but I mainly wrote this story because I had some left over thoughts about how I wanted to expand on Chris and Tom's lives from the first part, and because it would basically make me very happy to do so. I hope you all enjoy their adventures and their love, and please remember that this is a work of fiction taken from the dangerous depths of my mind, full of cobwebs and hanging icicles and flattened birthday cake probably.
> 
> Thank you to my fantastic beta, duskyhuedladysatan, who is tireless and selfless and super smart and ily ok. Romy to my Michelle.
> 
> **Heed the tagged warnings**

The nights whispered, and the nights shone. But Tom was never cold. Not like that first night. That long ago dreadful night when he almost succumbed to a blizzard’s power, when he almost walked right by the place he now called home.

Chris kept him warm, always. His bulk and weight pinned Tom to the bed, under blankets and murmured kisses on his cheeks and brow. And Tom couldn’t remember a time when he’d slept better, when anxiety and worry over his circumstances, over his mother’s controlling emotional abuse and his position in a life he felt unfit to follow would have kept him awake for hours, the gray light of dawn creeping through his dormitory window to fall silent and judgmental on his face.

But that first winter passed without further incident. Most people believed him dead. The townspeople and his mother and the men she’d sent looking for him, they all thought him a pile of bones under a mound of snow, turned to dust the following spring. Chris said that he had seen flyers around town with an illustrated likeness of Tom’s face on it, the word _missing_ just under. Tom thought it was kind of the townsfolk to care so much for someone only a handful of them had seen, and the flyers really were a nice gesture, but Tom wanted nothing to do with a group of people who would sooner embrace a stranger for appearing normal than accept one of their own sons for being different and wildly beautiful in a way they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive them their rejection of Chris. Their violent attack on him the past winter still existed as a tight wire of tension over the town, sizzling to a quiet rage whenever Chris drove in for supplies. But he ignored them, paid for his wares and left again, returning to Tom with bushels of fresh vegetables and fish and chicken and dozens of eggs and fruits and more books for his boy.

Yet, Tom _lived_. He thrived in these woods, his curls growing long and wild, petals of flowers caught up in his hair. His skin darkened to a summer gold, lashes and brows bleached from the sun, freckles like a map of stars on his shoulders. Into the next spring, he grew two inches, muscles lengthening, slim on his long limbs, nearly eye to eye with Chris.

Chris, who would grab him up after a long day outside, skin smelling of sweat and grass, lips warm from the sun. He would kiss Tom, long and slow, his great arms wrapped around the back of him, making him feel safe and protected, making him feel small and fragile as a butterfly, and great and bursting like the tallest waterfalls. Tom would melt into those embraces, smiling as he pulled twigs and soapberries from Chris’s hair.

Tom liked knowing his existence was a mystery to people. He felt timeless in the glade where Chris had rebuilt his family’s cabin. He felt as if space and age didn’t exist here with them, where only nature ran its course, the grass blades and plumes of mushrooms breaking free of the hard frozen earth, a new cycle of seasons beginning afresh.

That first winter was hard for him. He knew nothing of the woods and its properties, knew nothing of the sky and the tell of day. The woods spread wide and far, with jutted peaks and broken ditches, full of danger and the possibility of injury and threat. Fear and awe were Tom’s main emotions, spying through the curtains, eyes trailing Chris as he moved about the yard.

Fear and awe, and love to help assuage such uncertainties.

And how Chris loved him. Doting on him, showering him with an affection and devotion Tom had never before known. There were still moments when Tom paused to marvel at the gift of such a man, his beloved. His life in London had harbored little support from the people he was closest with, his mother, his sisters, his friends. There was always an agenda, always a scheme that garnered little regard for his feelings and his sanity, only the advancement of his mother’s goals for the family. But that life was over for him, and he no longer thought of his mother and sisters and the incessant routine that had nearly driven him mad. Not if he could help it.

The nights still whispered, and the nights still shone, and Tom was beginning to trust the woods and its reach into their lives on the mountain. Slowly, he started venturing into the trees on his own, to collect berries and herbs just as Chris instructed and asked of him, or just to stare up at the great heights of them, and ponder. His instinct to cower when something snapped through the brush was slowly diminishing, accepting the presence of the abundant wildlife around them. The birds often followed in his wake, twittering as he trudged through snow or high grass, a faded vine basket in the crook of his arm. Chris often went with him, shadowing his steps as the birds did, an axe or shotgun kept close at his hip. Tom felt better with Chris nearby, even if Tom was comfortable enough now to wander on his own.

When both were warm and curled together under their blankets, wisps of lights fluttered over them from behind the white and blue curtains, like tickling fire moths on their skin. When Tom would fall asleep under Chris in their bed, and wake again hours later out in the woods, or in their yard, or even elsewhere in the cabin, he was learning how to accept it. He was never harmed, only nervous and a little afraid, expecting the solid beams of the cabin’s wooden ceiling and opening his eyes to find the great wide canopy of treetops and stars. He could never gauge when it would happen. It just did, and sometimes Chris woke beside him, as disoriented and exhausted as Tom, and sometimes he woke alone, naked and covered in dirt and weeds.

As day after day went by, and then month after month, as the heavy heat of summer set in over their private glade, Tom grew stronger. His foot no longer ached, the great gaping wounds from the steel teeth of the animal trap were nearly faded away, only small patches of pearl-white on his tanned skin, reminders of how quickly his life changed, and why. If he happened to injure himself in some way around the cabin—and it happened every now and then, small cuts and splinters from their rugged life—Chris was quick to apply the salve he created from the herbs and flowers that grew freely in the forest. The cuts and burns would shrink and fade away, only the smallest scars left as tokens of the pain, spots on his body where Chris would linger and kiss with extra attention.

He never felt the desire to accompany Chris into town, nor would it have been a good idea to go anyway. The townspeople, led mostly by the men whom Chris had defended himself against, were ready to use any excuse to rally against Chris. Seeing him in the company of a boy who had gone missing months before would only have ignited more angry confusion and retribution. Tom doubted his words would mean much in the face of such clouded violence. And he wanted Chris safe above anything else. He was glad to stay behind if it meant the people down the road would have less reason to attack Chris. Besides, he still wasn’t sure if word would make it back to his mother that he yet lived. He didn’t want to take that chance. He had enough to worry about every time Chris climbed into his truck for a supply run, watching the brake lights dim away in the gloom of the forest, hand lifted in reluctant farewell.

Time apart from Chris was like an ache in his side. He worked through it, piling lumber split by Chris’s axe, cleaning and reassembling the weapons, rotating the vegetables and other foods in the back room where Chris gutted the kills, sitting in his rocking chair with the books Chris brought back for him from the secondhand bookstore in town. Kneeling in the soft soil of their garden, Tom cut free heads of lettuce and carrots and radishes, wiping the sweat from his brow, eyes squinted on the tree line.

Whenever he heard the rumble of the pickup, when he saw the headlights breaking through the tree trunks, he would drop everything and rush out to him.

Hauling open the driver door, Tom would yank on the lapels of Chris’s jacket, both falling against each other, dropping to the ground, where Chris would pepper his face with kisses and Tom’s legs would open to cradle him tightly. They often didn’t make it into the bedroom, stumbling up the porch steps, clawing at their clothes, fingers in each other’s hair, lips hard and devouring.

Chris had started keeping containers of lube all over the house, their tendency to knock up against walls and the table and the arm chair and the floor demanding they be prepared at a moment’s notice. Their gasps and smacking kisses echoed in the cabin, voices rumbling low along the scuffed wood floors, Chris’s hand spread wide on Tom’s belly.

“My baby in here?” he moaned, pumping into Tom, his other hand wrapped around the back of Tom’s head, gripping him and guarding him from the hard floor.

“Yes, my darling,” Tom whispered, lifting his chin for more kisses, covering Chris’s hand with his own, his flat stomach heaving under his thrusts.

Chris’s sexual virility proved that Tom often went interrupted during the day, bent over the countertop, draped across the table, or anchored around Chris’s waist, riding him with gusto, desperate to be bred as the sun set outside beyond the pines.

With hardly a thought to the number of moonsets, Tom realized that almost two years had passed since his encounter with the blizzard. He was still the same boy who had lain shivering in Chris’s tub, grown into a man of twenty-two, his lover and companion. No one interrupted their hard-earned peace and quiet, the summer nights laden with the skitter thumps of rabbits and the deep-throated calls of tawny owls. And the lights, which flickered on like a dusting of stars brought low to the earth.

“My hair needs cutting,” Tom said one evening, glancing at his reflection in the steel hollow of a frying pan. He ran his fingers through the jumbled curls, frowning as they bounced wildly.

Chris came up beside him. “I rather like it long.”

Tom turned and gave him a playful shove. “You would have me grow it down to my bum and put it in pigtails if I let you.”

Chris moaned and took his waist. “Don’t tease your old man.”

Tom pouted and let himself be coddled. “You’re not an old man. You haven’t aged a day since I met you.”

“And you’ve grown only more beautiful to me.”

Chris kissed him, his beard scratching gently at Tom’s chin. Tom’s toes no longer skimmed the floor when Chris grabbed him up against him like this, but he still felt just as weightless in those big arms, just as precious.

Chris nibbled at his ear and ground their hips together, but before the heat could spread too far, Tom broke away from their kiss.

“Cut my hair, my darling. And then you can have your way with me.”

Trailing his hand down Tom’s chest, Chris settled it over his belly. “I can take you over and over? Claim you? I can make you big with my child?”

A spike of arousal lit in Tom’s groin, and his hips jumped forward. “Yes…Yes, my husband.”

Pupils blown wide, Chris groaned and crashed their mouths together, hitching Tom onto his waist and pushing him down on the rug.

Tom gasped when Chris ripped at the buttons of his jeans. “A-a-after—Chris, I said after—.”

But Chris surged forward and Tom gave up with a frustrated huff, reaching for him and clawing at his back. After fevered promises of a bellyful of thick cum, Chris twice edged Tom over those terrible and beautiful cliffs that were his orgasms—once on his hands and knees, and again fixed under Chris with his back on the rug. Streaked with his own release, docile and pliant, he held Chris as he shuddered and burst inside him, filling him up as promised. Great long gushes of cum, pulsing and making Tom moan again.

More than an hour later, Tom limped bowlegged to one of the kitchen chairs, a soft throw clutched over his thin shoulders. Chris was grinning as he took the scissors from a drawer in the kitchen, running his hand over Tom’s scalp, bending to sniff at his hair.

"Scoundrel,” Tom muttered, and smiled when Chris placed a loud kiss on his cheek.

The sharp rasp of the scissors sounded in the warm quiet of the cabin, tendrils of his hair falling to the floor, littered at his feet like golden tufts of feathers. The fire crackled on the hearth, but Tom’s feet felt cool on the wooden floor.

“Do you wish I were a girl?” he whispered suddenly, eyes on his toes.

The scissors fell silent. Chris shifted behind him, heavy footsteps on the floor, and then he was squatting at his side.

“No. I don’t.” His brows dipped in the middle, a furrow of concern, of confusion.

“I’m not mad,” Tom said quickly, not wishing to start a row. He shrugged. “I don’t want to be a girl. I love being a boy. I love how you love me as a boy. You just…you always say how pretty I am—.”

“You are—.”

“And want me to have babies—.”

 _“Our_ babies—.”

 “And you like my hair long.”

Chris exhaled through his nose.

“And you call me wife,” Tom finished quietly, lifting his gaze.

Chris stayed quiet, blue eyes creased in worry. He placed the scissors on the floor and then scooted closer on his knees.

“Before I met you, I had a brief affair with a man. Brandon. He didn’t much like me, I think. Only tolerated me for the time it took him to realize he was geared toward men but not to my tastes. He left after I spoke too freely in bed. Started up all kinds of rumors about me. Maybe he was only angry at himself, for what he’d done with me. After that I met fairly regularly with a woman in town. Her name is—.”

“Don’t tell me,” Tom said quickly, clutching Chris’s wrist. “I don’t want to know.”

Chris smiled. “Is my fawn jealous?”

“Yes,” Tom said, straight faced.

“But I told you Brandon’s name.”

“The woman…is more difficult, I think,” Tom said, licking his lips nervously. “A woman I feel I can’t compete with.”

Chris’s eyes softened and he leaned forward to rest his forehead on Tom’s cheek.

“You have her beat by miles. You have everyone beat by miles.”

Tom hugged him close, nuzzling the crown of his head. Chris drew back.

“If the…the wife and baby talk makes you uneasy—.”

“No!” Tom sat up. “No, my darling. It doesn’t. I like it very much,” he whispered, tucking a strand of Chris’s hair behind his ear. “An endearment is an endearment. You could call me king and it wouldn’t necessarily make me one. But that would be how you felt about me. A wife to you, I know, is a position of respect and honor. A partner. A companion. And it doesn’t bother me that you call me that. And a baby, well…” He smiled. “It’s been two years. I would have said something sooner if I didn’t like it.”

They smiled and then Chris laughed softly, clearly relieved. He rested his head on Tom’s belly, and Tom caressed his cheek.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Two weeks before I met you,” Chris said, lifting his eyes, honest as they flicked over his face.

“Won’t she wonder why you haven’t gone to her?”

Chris blinked fast. “I…Well, I’m not sure. I don’t know. I haven’t thought of her at all.” He shook his head, palming Tom’s knee. “It’s just that, I was extremely careful with her. I never came inside her. I never desired to see her heavy with my child, not like I desire a man to be heavy with my child. Like I desire you to be. So no, I don’t wish you were a girl. I like you exactly as you are. My boy. My sweet, brave boy. And imagining you big and round is making me hard.” He finished quietly, his voice dipping low with desire. Tom’s eyes dropped down to his crotch, heat flaming over his face. He let the throw fall from his shoulders.

“Then fill me again. And plant your seed deep.”

Chris jumped forward and lifted him easily, turning him on his stomach over the table and pushing in roughly. Fingers curled over the surface, Tom jolted forward, crying out as Chris set a fast pace, slapping into him hard.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “I want no one else.”

Tears sprang to Tom’s eyes, erection and heavy sac trapped between his closed legs. Chris liked crowding him in, making him as tight as possible, ramming in and hauling Tom closer with two hands on his hips. He always came copiously, thick ribbons of cum spewing into Tom, slicking his insides, spilling free from his entrance. It was no different this time, releasing sooner than Tom expected, pulsing inside him, groaning up at the ceiling. Tom felt warmth trickle down his thighs, and he could imagine them already, thick veins of white.

Chris toyed with him, dipping the head of his cock in his own spill, pushing back in, rimming his hole and dragging the tip low to nudge at his balls. They moaned and shuddered.

Delirious, Tom’s vision winked in and out, legs trembling and dotting with static shocks. He’d climaxed too, streaks of cum snaking down his legs, splattered on the floor.

Murmuring sweetly into his hair, Chris carried him to the bath, laying him in the deep basin and filling it with cool water from the fount outside. And then he crawled in behind him and held Tom to his chest. They slept there for a short time, curled against the smooth wood, bodies lax and resplendent with fatigue.

“Who would he look like?” Tom murmured, drowsing with his cheek pressed to Chris’s nipple.

He’d been hesitant to ask, but the truth was that he rather liked the idea of a child with Chris. And Chris had always been so open about his fantasies of a baby between them, just the image of Tom swollen with pregnancy enough to get Chris hard almost instantaneously, often whispering filthy promises of breeding him hard and deep when they were in the thickest throes of passion. But such fantasies were impossible, and any child of theirs wouldn’t truly be of them both. It was impossible, but lying together in a bath imagining what their baby might look like held no harm. 

Chris hummed sleepily, settling more comfortably against the side of the tub.

Tom shrugged. “Our baby.”

Cupping his head, Chris exhaled slowly. “He would be beautiful. Sunlight in his hair, and stars in his eyes. Like his mama.”

Tom smiled wide and hugged him round the waist, falling quiet in the moist and dripping air.

**

There was water close by. The deer could smell it.

Pushing through the pungent pine branches, he took measured steps, hind legs stopping abruptly at the sound of a broken twig. His ears pulled back, heart jack hammering in his chest, black nose scrunching to catch the scents in the air. But then he relaxed, for on the breeze he smelled his bear, also close by, always watching over him.

From around the bend of trees he came, all lumbering fifteen hundred pounds of him. His fur was wet and dripping, and the deer pranced quickly to his side, burying his little face in his soft hide, light brown and shining in the sun. He butted the bear’s shoulder playfully, admonishing him for having gone to the creek without him.

His bear made a rumble in his mighty chest, nose lifted to scent the air, mouth parting to growl easily at the sky. A low and gentle laugh.

Continuing on his way, the deer trotted through the brambles and leaped onto rocks, hearing his bear follow close behind, his heavier bulk doing nothing to disrupt his pace, keeping up with him as he headed toward the water.

The deer stooped his long neck and drank, pink tongue curled to scoop the clear water. Tasting of the melted snow from the top of the mountain, the water was fresh as he lapped at the surface, ears twitching in recognition as his bear sidled up next to him, rubbing his white-spotted rump with a broad nose. He plopped down heavily beside him, long black claws sinking into the moist and loose earth, tiny rumbles like deep thunder purring from his arched throat.

They sat together at the edge of the water, sides touching. The deer felt dwarfed by his bear’s size, the sun blocked entirely so that he rested in cool shade. He leaned against his giant shoulder and nuzzled into his heat, the deer’s velvet-soft ears bending against that solid mass.

The creek bubbled past them, a cloud of bugs buzzing along the grass, and the flowers swayed in the growing wind. The bear leaned down and snuffled the deer’s neck with small grunts of familiarity. Above their heads a bank of dark clouds gathered. His bear lifted his snout and sniffed as splatters of rainfall sprinkled over them.

He burrowed deeper into his bear’s side, shuffling under a great arm, seeking shelter. Only a few minutes passed before the skies burst open and they were being showered in warm summer rain. His bear nudged him gently, prodding him forward with his nose, and together they started back through the trees, his hooves cutting through the soil, clacking against the stones he maneuvered over. He paused to nibble at a gathering of flowers. His bear shadowed him, stopping when he stopped, quiet in all his strength. And because the flowers looked so invitingly soft, clustered together under a high cliff, blocking the crest of water that spilled over its jagged edge, the deer walked a delicate circle to feel for a spot to lie down. Buckling his legs, he dropped to his belly and curled up on his side, casting a look to his bear, who hesitated over a patch of vibrant moss. Growling out a low huff, his bear stalked over and collapsed lazily behind him, tucking his great head over the deer’s taut flank, settling down to sleep.

After a slow look around the large circle of trees around them, his long lashes fluttering with every blink, the deer relaxed against his bear and closed his eyes.

**

Drifting in a haze of sleep, Tom felt something walk across his nose. He scrunched his face but it didn’t go away. Opening his eyes, they crossed as he focused on the ladybug crawling over his cheek. He yawned with a wide stretch and the ladybug flew away.

Draped over his chest, Chris lay asleep, arms squeezed into Tom’s sides. Tom smiled and snuggled closer, giggling when Chris roused and rubbed his beard over Tom’s nipple.

“Where are we?” Chris rasped, lifting his head.

“Where do you think?”

“Our second home, then,” Chris said softly, and Tom laughed.

With a glint of mischief in his eyes, Chris crawled closer, kissing a trail up Tom’s throat, big hands wrapping around his wrists. The long green stems of the flowers bent and swayed low in the hollowed space they’d created for themselves, lazy kisses and whispered adorations sounding quietly in the glade, their bodies wrapped tightly.

Nibbling at him, Chris widened his mouth and pressed nearly-hurtful bites into his flesh, groaning when Tom bucked in evident need. He mouthed his way over the jutted point of Tom's hipbone, licking a stripe over the sensitive skin of his thigh. Tom watched him through his lashes, smiling and cupping the back of Chris's head. His cheeks flamed with color from Chris's gaze, a warmth that rose along his belly and flushed his nipples pink. With a heavy groan, Chris pulled Tom's legs to one side, exposing his bottom to the moist afternoon air.

Tom gasped and flopped onto his chest, looking over his shoulder at where Chris buried his face between his cheeks, strong tongue lapping at his hole.

"Oh, darling, yes. I-It's been more than a d-day since you've done this. Too long," he gasped. "Too long." Chris's low laughter rumbled against him and he whined, arching his back, grabbing handfuls of the broken flowers.

Chris ate him out slowly and devoutly, mouth wide over his entrance, tongue flicking out, broad tip pushing into him. Tom keened, his cries and hushed murmurs floating into the trees, so wet from Chris's attention, saliva dripping between his thighs. He tried not to squirm, but he couldn't help but writhe on the flowers, his cock half hard and trapped beneath him.

Panting, he pushed back against Chris's mouth, forehead rolling over purple and yellow petals, knees dirtied with soil and crushed green leaves.

Pliant now, and in half a daze, he was rolled onto his back again, the sudden and blue sky careening into his vision.

Strong legs muscled his apart and Chris reached low to guide himself in.

Gasping, Tom arched and Chris latched onto a nipple.

“I love you, my wife,” he murmured at his flesh, pushing in and pulling out, the slick slide of his burning cock stretching and filling Tom so that he keened and rolled his hips to match Chris’s pace. It had been a year ago that Chris started calling Tom his wife, mostly when they made love, frantic and heated and grabbing at each other. Very slowly, the term had slipped into their everyday conversations, Chris calling him wife as a term of endearment and Tom, blushing to the roots of his hair less and less often, had shyly started referring to Chris as husband, both falling into an easy understanding in their affectionate coddling.

Rosy-cheeked and panting, Tom kept his head lifted, lashing trembling. “And I love you, dear husband.”

He whined as Chris sealed their mouths together, hips slapping forward, rutting into him in that small meadow of flowers, drops of the remaining rainwater falling over them. Tom wrapped his legs behind Chris’s back and anchored his arms around his neck, practically dangling as Chris sat back on his heels, half-lifting him to ram in harder.

“What will it be?” Tom gasped. Chris licked his lips, eyes flicking down to Tom’s belly. He palmed it gently, rolling Tom’s hips with his other hand.

“A boy,” Chris whispered, and Tom smiled.

“A boy,” he laughed, hugging him tight.

Chris took a full grip of his bottom in each hand and slammed Tom down on his cock. Tom cried out, head hanging back, fingers clutched in Chris’s hair.

His own erection bobbed freely between them, leaking a thick stream, balls full and ready to burst.

“Yes, husband. Do it, please. Fill me up. Make me swell with it. I want you dripping out of me. Sticky,” he moaned, pecking at Chris’s lips with each word. “And wet. And thick. So thick. You’re so thick inside me. _Fuck me.”_

Chris growled and rammed in harder, their skin slapping in that warm glade, hazy with sunlight and flower pollen, two butterflies swooping in to dance a circle over their heads. And all around him, Tom's ears tuned sharply to the soft thump of rabbit feet, the steady drip of the remaining rainwater from branches long and hanging overhead. The butterflies hovered, a bee landed in the brightest yellow flower, and in the corner of his eye a fox darted closer. Because that's all they were, he and Chris, two more animals mating in the woods, the smaller creatures unperturbed and relaxed in their presence.

When Chris came, he growled into Tom's throat, hands like vises on his waist, pulling out the tiniest bit and slamming in again. Tom felt the first wire of pleasure snap in his own chest, sending a spasm of light and star crystals through his blood, body tightening as Chris pumped over and over his seed deep into him. He spilled with a shout, streams of cum dribbling down Chris’s chest, pooling thickly in the slim groove of his belly button.

“Good little fawn, my good boy. I love you,” Chris murmured, stroking Tom’s hair. Tom, who had gone limp in his arms, was supported only by the strong base of Chris’s thighs, wrapped tight by those steely arms, a loving seat to rest. They nuzzled each other, Chris laying him back on the bed of plastered flower petals and broken stems.

Tears bubbled under Tom’s lashes and they slipped free, streaking down his temples. Chris brushed them away, eyes tender with concern. But Tom only smiled and tilted his head back for a quick bubble of happy laughter, feeling Chris soften inside him.

“You are like the sun,” he said softly, carding through Chris’s hair.

A ladybug landed on Tom’s shoulder and Chris shooed it away gently.

“I am nothing.”

“You are everything,” Tom insisted quietly, tugging Chris’s earlobe.

“ _I_ am itchy.”

Tom’s laughter turned into a surprised yelp when Chris hauled him to his feet.

“There’s a creek nearby. Follow me.” Chris held out his hand, but Tom jumped past him with a grin.

“I actually know where it is.”

Chris stopped short. “You do?”

“Yep.” He jumped onto a boulder, Chris’s eyes following the long line of his legs. He turned back with a smile. “I’ve been there before.”

**

Summer ended with a small heat wave. Tom made multiple trips to the creek for water for their garden, the flowers and vegetables wilting in the harsh sunlight. Chris constructed a tall awning that provided shade for the plants, most of which they would need to eat: the fruit and vegetables, their herbs for medicines and teas. Tom sprinkled water over the parched soil from the scratched green container Chris said had belonged to his mother, and Tom handled it carefully as he tipped the funnel to let the water rain down.

Lying in bed together one night, Tom was kept awake with a stomachache. He’d eaten lightly at dinner, biting into a salad from the garden while Chris tore into deer meat and a roasted potato. He didn’t feel ill exactly, but he tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable spot. Chris finally wrapped an arm around his middle and dragged him against his chest, tucking him there and promptly falling asleep again with his mouth in Tom’s hair. Trapped, Tom finally fell still, his bellyache dimming to a nearly nonexistent throb. Comfortable enough, he fell asleep and woke the next morning with no discomfort at all. It happened again over the next few weeks, never enough to alarm him, but he was careful with what he ate, not wanting to make worse what was probably a passing sensitivity or indigestion.

It was early September when Chris returned one day with two piglets and a box full of baby chicks. Tom had been feeling slightly ill all day, his neck and shoulder muscles sore and tight, his belly twisting with upset. Without much of an appetite, Tom sat in his rocking chair, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. As soon as Chris’s truck rumbled into view, he hopped down the steps to meet him.

“You’re later than usual,” he said, walking around the front fender. “I worried. I keep wishing I could text you.”

Chris smiled and climbed out. “My city boy. Even if we did have those tiny little contraptions, we’d get no signal up here.”

Tom shrugged and kicked at the dirt. “Still.”

"Nothing's going to happen to me, sunflower. I promise." Chris smiled and tugged at his hand. “I brought something back for us.”

“Oh my god, is it an electric razor?” Tom's eyes widened hopefully, but Chris smacked his bottom.

“No, silly bug. Not without any power lines.”

“That’s okay, love.” There were times when Tom missed city life. The bustle and the flow of things, the constant noise and activity and aromas and all places to get lost in. The amenities and easy conveniences. He was sure he would have enjoyed himself more had it not been for the nagging anxiety about his mother’s surveillance of him that drove him from point to point in his strict schedule. The last great and liberating thing he’d done in London—before his daring escape—had been to go out dancing for his birthday, and it suddenly seemed like such a pathetic and small thing in comparison to what his life was now, out here in this great and looming wilderness.

Chris put a hand on his neck and peered closer. “Are you alright, love?”

Tom shrugged. “I’m fine. Probably trying to fight off an early cold.”

He hadn’t been sick since his brush with death two winters ago, not even a cold or a bout with the flu. He was healthy as a horse, kept strong by their homegrown vegetables and fruit and the hearty meat and fish Chris brought home daily. His diet was comfortably well-balanced.

“This icky feeling will probably go away in a day or two.”

The lines were tight around Chris’s mouth, clearly doubtful of Tom’s optimism.

Something made a soft _peep_ from inside the box and Tom stepped forward, curious.

“What is it?”

Chris opened the two boxes and showed him the dozen baby chicks and two piglets. Tom’s mouth dropped open in a happy gasp.

“Babies!”

He reached in and picked up a chick, which peeped and wriggled in his cupped palms. Chris picked up a piglet and petted its soft pink head, ears flopping forward as it snorted and squealed sweetly.

Tom eyed it from a distance. Chris usually brought two piglets home at the end of summer to fatten up and cook for the winter holidays in December and the start of the New Year. Before Tom, Chris had never celebrated Christmas after his family died. But Tom still had a lingering devotion to the holiday, more having to do with the festive nature of the season, with its carols and decorations and gift giving, than anything to do with his stern Protestant upbringing. Showing too much emotion or excitement over a thing was only another sign of weakness in his mother's eyes, another sign of his disgusting constitution as a man.

“Just like your father,” she was apt to say, disappointment turning down the corners of her mouth, as if homosexuality was a disease passed from generation to generation, as if his father had been a failure. Just like Tom.

But Chris, as if sensing Tom’s slight self-deprecation, always lavished him with gruffly whispered compliments; he liked indulging Tom, and that meant letting him string paper snowflakes across the wooden beams of the cabin, linking chains of the foiled ribbon Chris brought home one day from the dollar store, hanging holly and dried flowers from every door handle. Tom still remembered the box of random stuff Chris had presented him early in their relationship, rather sheepish and gruff about it. Inside was a bundle of broken lights, three red and white stockings, a glittering star of golden dust and a blue-gowned angel with wings made of bird feathers.

Tom had embraced him tightly and whispered his thanks, starting to decorate immediately. In the two years he’d been living with him, his small box of holiday stuff had slowly grown to include mismatched baubles and ornaments, lights and cheap window stickers, and string to link popcorn. Chris would chop the tree and Tom would adorn it with his small homemade creations. And as a special treat for Tom, he brought home a few bottles of spirits every New Year, drinking well past midnight. A stumbling, giggly, clingy mess, Tom would sit in Chris’s lap and grind down on him, sucking at his mouth and neck, clawing into his hair until Chris finally flipped him onto the rug and fucked into him. Sated and out of breath, they lay there until late morning, sleeping off their hangover.

The cooking would always be Chris’s task. And he liked ham and bacon and sausage too much not to include with nearly every meal. Tom enjoyed meat too, but he’d never liked knowing the animals they ended up eating. He avoided the pens Chris had built adjacent to the garden, even if Chris visited the pigs daily, murmuring to them and stroking their thickening bodies. He cared for them and fed them well, not blinking an eye when he chose one for Christmas dinner, saving the other for the New Year’s ham. Tom made himself scarce when Chris went to slaughter the pigs, hating the frightened squeals and sudden, unnerving silence. He would retreat to the woods, sometimes finding his way back after a few hours, mind and stomach less tumultuous.

“It’s because I lay in bed with you covered in blood that one time, right?” Chris asked, cocking an eyebrow as he lit his pipe.

“ _No_ ,” Tom said, making a great effort not to pout. He settled closer to him in the rocking chair. “How can a person not get used to the sight of blood when around you?” Chris had chuckled, the end of his pipe glowing red in the dark. But Tom had to admit that the sight of blood still made him somewhat queasy, even if he didn’t mind it so much when it was with deer or rabbits, often working alongside Chris in the back room, sorting the vegetables and fruit. Pigs, on the other hand, needed to be raised and fed, and were too much like pets in that regard.

The deer and rabbits they consumed on a daily basis were cold kills to him. There wasn’t that recognition, that affection he might have allowed himself to feel for the pigs. It was different, and Chris respected his distance, often going into the woods to find Tom and bring him back home once he was done and washed up.

“Which first?” Tom heard himself ask, drawing his gaze away from the piglet, adorably pink and soft and tiny in Chris's arms.

Chris set the pig back in the box with its brother and picked up a baby chick. “I’ll worry about that, little fawn. Do you like the birds?”

Tom grinned and rubbed his cheek on the soft down of the ball of fluff in his hands. “I do. But,” he said, pulling away, brows drawn low. “Will we eat these too?”

“Maybe. But only a few. I think the eggs will benefit us more in the long run.”

Tom followed Chris around the cabin and to the back yard, the box of chicks in his arms. Chris placed the piglets in the pen that he maintained throughout the year, and then led the way to the chicken coop he’d been building over the past week. Tom had heard him hammering away all hours of the day and only now saw the fruit of his labor.

The coop was only a few inches taller than Chris, bright red with white trim. He followed Chris into the dark interior, his eyes slowly adjusting. After they placed the chicks in the top row of cubby holes lined with soft hay—as a deterrent for predators and to prevent the curious little chirping puff balls from wandering off—they filed back out into the sunlight.

Quite suddenly, something sharp sprang free inside Tom's stomach and he jerked to a halt, clutching his waist.

Chris took his elbow. "What is it?”

Tom shook his head, eyes caught on a line of ants snaked around the tip of his boot and he thought, absurdly, that it might have only been by a stroke of luck that he'd narrowly avoided stepping on them.

With a quick exhale, the sharp sensation eased away and he was able to straighten slowly, slightly out of breath. Behind his belly button, a dull ache had made its home. Had he eaten something bad? But he and Chris shared all their food, and Chris was feeling just fine. Wasn't he?

He cast slightly panicked eyes on Chris. "Have you, you know, been feeling ill lately? Does your stomach hurt at all?"

"No." Chris frowned, squinting in the sun. "You look pale, little bug. You don't feel well?"

Tom took a few steps toward the house. "I think I'll just lie down for a bit, darling."

Chris followed. "I'll come with you."

"No, it’s quite alright. I don't want to take you away from your work."

But Chris threw an arm around him anyway, guiding him through the back door and down the hall to their bedroom, and Tom leaned his weight on him, realizing he needed the support anyway. Once in bed, Tom stretched back on the pillows, moaning when the muscles in his abdomen contracted.

"What can I do?" Chris asked in a whisper, kneeling by the bed. He touched Tom's forehead. "There is no fever."

Tom shook his head, and curled into his side, his stomach giving another twinge. It didn't feel like he had to use the toilet, or even like he had an upset stomach. He just felt...odd. Achy, deep inside his gut.

"I just…need to lie here for a minute. Come check on me in a bit, love?"

Chris nodded after a moment, eyes tight with worry. He didn't leave right away, crouched by the side of the bed, stroking Tom's forehead with his long thumb. And because he knew Tom liked when he sang him to sleep, Chris started humming softly under his breath, waiting until Tom's eyes started to droop, lulled by the deep cadence of his song. Wrapping both arms across his belly, Tom frowned as he slipped into sleep, hoping he would wake with no pain, Chris's soothing lullaby following after him.

**

He dreamt of red circles in the dark. They floated, expanding and contracting with a rhythm that was not unlike Tom’s own heartbeat, like the working arteries that carried blood through his body. But he couldn't feel his body. All he felt were the heat of these circles, dimming and brightening with every single pulse. Where were his hands? Where were his feet? Where was Chris?

In some greater background, a tapping roused him slowly, and he opened his eyes to discover the room in semi-darkness. The red circles disappeared, receding into some dormant part of his brain, and he blinked around, half forgetting what he’d dreamt.

He was alone in the early evening.

“Chris?” he rasped, but the cabin echoed with that heavy emptiness that meant Chris was gone.

Something tumbled from the pillow beside him and he lifted his head, feeling around for it. It was another wooden figurine, a small fawn. Just like the one Chris had first carved for him after his foot injury. Smiling, he rubbed the soft wood on his bottom lip, blowing the excess dust from between the fawn’s pointed ears.

The tapping continued and he turned to the window. Terribly thirsty, he sat up gingerly, wincing when his stomach pulled tight again. The pain was still there, the ache still throbbing. And when he palmed his belly to soothe it, he felt a heat through his shirt that hadn't been there before, as if a fever had sprung into his veins while he'd slept.

Tears gathered in his eyes and he doubled over, clutching his tummy as another cramp settled behind his abdomen. Groaning, he eased back on the bed and curled around Chris's pillow. In the distance, the tapping that had woken him stopped and he realized that it was the banging of a hammer on something spongy, like wood. Chris was outside somewhere, probably mending a fence or reinforcing the pigpen. Tom wanted more than anything to join him, maybe lean against the gate to the garden, flicking dry pumpkin seeds at Chris and then flitting away with a laugh.

But he stayed put, the low rustle in his belly unnerving enough to make him lie still in caution. Something was _moving_ inside him, more than mere spasms; it was overlapping and settling in a strange and frightening way he’d never felt before. He winced and felt heat flush his face, confusion and fear making him feel faint. A wave of fatigue washed over him just as he heard the front door open, Chris’s steps starting down the hall.

He was unconscious by the time Chris stepped into the room. He didn't feel when Chris cupped his cheek, whispered against his brow, stroked his arm and flat belly. He was gone, down into the dark where the red circles were pulsing once more, where even that simmering heat couldn’t stop him from recognizing the low echo, something like thunder, as Chris’s voice.

**

Night came and went, and still Chris kept vigil, pacing the floor, eyes on the bundled heap that was Tom on the bed. He didn't sleep a wink, lying down beside him, whispering to him with no response. He tried placing a cool cloth on his forehead, fever burning brightly on his skin, making it pink and moist. Chris was reminded of the time Tom had fallen deathly ill after appearing half frozen in his cabin, a steel animal trap embedded in his foot. But Chris hadn't lost him then, and he wouldn't lose him now. Tom hadn’t been sick since that time, always smiling and following Chris about, eager to learn and spend time with him. Why the sudden dip in his health? What was Chris missing?

Sitting at the edge of the bed, he cupped Tom's head, heart constricting as his boy moaned and shivered, curling tighter over his middle. The wooden fawn he’d made him was clutched loosely in his sweaty palm, nestled protectively over his stomach.

What was happening to him? What could it be? Had he eaten something bad? Had he caught some illness from the wind? Had something bitten him, like a spider or a tic? Even in his sleep, Tom’s instinct was to guard his stomach, as if the pain was centered there.

Curious, Chris bent low and pressed an ear to the top of Tom's sternum. And there, wet and slick, were faint popping noises, like how deer meat sounded when he shifted around their innards with his bare hands for the good parts.

He drew back, eyes widening with surprise. "Baby," he whispered, and Tom turned toward him, asleep still, seeking him out.

Minutes passed and Chris finally made up his mind. He went outside and started his pickup with a mighty rumble. After piling blankets and a pillow on the seat he went back inside, thinking he would risk everything to make sure Tom was okay.

**

Tom felt the bed dip and then strong arms around him. His world tilted and he moaned, clinging to Chris, whom he knew by scent and touch.

“Wh—what are we…Where—.”

“Shh, now,” Chris said, hitching him higher in his arms. He started for the hall and Tom stiffened, feet dragging on the wall.

“No,” he mumbled. “Put me down. Chris, please…stop.”

“I’m taking you into town. The clinic is open at eight.”

“Eight? What day is it?”

“Friday morning. You’ve slept almost twenty four hours.”

He hesitated in the living room, eyeing the small fire that was still burning low in the coals. Tom squirmed in his arms, head lolling on his shoulder, panting at his neck.

“You can’t take me there, Chris. They—they don’t know that I live. Someone is bound to recognize me. They’ll call the police. My mother will find out and I’ll be taken away. We’ll be separated. Please,” he whimpered, falling limp. “I’ll be fine. Put me back in bed.”

“No.” Jaw set, Chris turned from the fire and headed out the door, kicking it closed behind him. “Ain’t nobody taking you from me.”

“Stop,” Tom gasped, putting up as much of a fight as he could. He struggled weakly, pushing at Chris’s chest and kicking his legs, but Chris handled him easily enough, placing him in the passenger seat and closing the door.

“Goddammit,” Tom slurred, yanking on the handle. But Chris was already in his seat and putting the truck in gear. “You’re being unreasonable.”

Chris shrugged and started into the woods, the truck bumping over the torn earth. Tom clutched his belly and gasped, pain racking up his spine. Chris eased up on the gas pedal, eyes sharp on him.

“It could be indigestion,” Tom moaned, head back on the seat. “Or-or appendicitis. Or my gall bladder—.”

“Apenda-what? What is that?” Chris said, hand on the wheel. “What are those things?”

Tom forgot sometimes Chris’s unorthodox lack of formal education. What he knew of the human body was based on rough and limited experience, not from terms learned in a textbook. His mother had taught him some rudimentary things, like how to read and do simple sums in his head, but most of his knowledge stemmed from things of the earth, plant and wildlife, the sky and its seasons. He could heal a body, but didn’t necessarily know the names of each bone and muscle. Tom had always found the characteristic rather endearing, and noble.

Before Tom could answer, Chris’s eyes widened on something outside Tom’s window, and then there was a loud and sudden crack in the air. Chris slammed on the brakes as a giant spruce came hurtling toward the front of the truck, missing the fender by mere inches. The felled tree landed with a violent bounce directly in their path, enormous and heavy and clearly unmovable.

Knocked against the dashboard, Tom paled and slumped down, the pain blinding him.

“Shit,” Chris bit out, parking the truck and jumping out. He ran around to Tom’s door and opened it, reaching for him gently. Eyes rolling back, Tom was barely conscious, but he clung to Chris weakly, wrapping his arms around his neck as Chris lifted him from the car, cradling him to his chest. He looked spooked, eyes wide as he turned every which way, holding Tom closer to him.

“Wha-what happened?” The sky was pin-wheeling above Tom, the treetops looming, but Chris was visibly upset, brows drawn low, jaw clenched. “A tree fell?”

Backing up toward the cabin, Chris was silent. He turned and crossed into the yard, Tom’s weight like nothing in his arms.

“It fell,” Tom murmured, peeking over Chris’s shoulder at where the truck sat parked, the giant tree blocking its way. “I saw it. It fell.”

“Fell. Something like that,” Chris said, a little darkly, voice low with something like worry. Tom blinked up at him, lifting a hand to touch his cheek, the thick bristles of his beard rasping on his palm.

“Don’t…worry, my love. I just need to…to rest.” He winced.

Pushing in through the front door, Chris stalked down the hall and into the bedroom. He lay Tom on the bed.

“How do you expect me not to worry, Tom,” Chris growled, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t like seeing you like this. In pain. And I can’t help you. You’re my…my _wife.”_

Tom curled his hands into the front of Chris’s shirt, stained with dirt and sweat, smelling like home. He tugged him closer. “I know, my love. I know I am. But this could be nothing. Why risk exposing ourselves when I’ll probably feel better in a little while?”

Chris paced, resolved neither to answer nor give in. Eventually Tom slept again, fidgeting under the thin shawl Chris placed over him. His skin was still warm, too warm for Chris’s liking.

He closed the bedroom door with a quiet click and then grabbed his axe from behind the front door. Trudging through the yard, his truck and the felled tree were exactly where he’d left them.

Stopping short of the tree line, he swept his gaze in a wide arc, looking for any sign of movement. Yet, all was still in the dim interior of the forest, unlike how he’d seen something move just before the tree fell; racing along the side of the truck, wrapping quick as a snake around the tree only moments before it had come falling down in front of them. Tom hadn’t seen it, but Chris had. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t spotted before, in the murkiness of early dawn or late dusk, a low vaporous cloud of black intermixed with spots of light.

The starry sky brought low to his earth.

But he’d never felt threatened before by these mists he’d been seeing since he was a child. He’d always felt protected by them. Always felt safe and welcome. Yet, it was difficult to ignore the sense of betrayal coiling in his blood, that what he’d once trusted now conspired to let Tom suffer, and hinder Chris from giving him the care he needed. If Tom got worse, if his pain and distress increased to the point of...Chris snuffed the thought before it could form, unable to even imagine such a fate.

Anger boiling in his veins, he skirted a cursory glance around the tranquil forest and approached the tree. With a spiteful snarl, he lifted the axe and swung it down on the felled tree. Gratification speared through him and he cried out roughly, lifting the axe again and again. The steel blade cut deep into the bark, but not deep enough to demolish and break into a million pieces he could burn with great pleasure.

He hadn’t realized. All this time, these two years with Tom, he hadn’t realized how spoiled he’d become to have such a companion at his side nearly every minute of the day. No sickness. No illness of any kind. It was a terror that crept into Chris’s heart now; that Tom wouldn’t recover, that he would end up dying in his cabin like Chris had tried so hard to prevent two years before, that he would be without love or warmth, alone again.

Tears blinded him as he struck the axe down over and over, the mossy bark and spindly leaves blurring in his sight.

“I keep him,” he gasped, voice shot. Sweat spilled down his face, arms burning, muscles vibrating with every strike of the blade. “My parents. Liam. Even Brandon. They’re gone! But Tom is _mine_.”

The tree cracked in two with his splintered scream and Chris staggered back against the truck, axe falling from his shaking fingers. It was too late that he realized he hadn’t worn gloves and that his palms were bleeding.

He clutched his stomach, hardly caring, and dragged in deep ragged breaths. Even with the tree cracked in two, it would take two men to move the broken pieces. And his partner in everything was lying shivering in their bed.

A sob burst from deep in his chest, despair and fear mounting in his heart.

If he lost Tom, Chris would follow him into that dark.

A flap of something heavy and strong sounded behind him and Chris turned fast, startled. A giant bird dove down at him, claws slamming hard into his chest. Chris flew backward, footing lost, landing on the ground and hitting his head on the hard tree trunk.

Knocked out cold, he lay there, jeans dirtied, boots pointed up at the sky. The giant bird circled him overhead before swooping up and disappearing into the treetops, the rustle of wings and branches the only evidence of its departure.

**

The bear padded through the brush, anxiety and a sense of threat digging heavy into his barreled chest. Where was his deer? He was always with him, where was he? Snorting in anger, the bear pushed through the trees, a solid thrum of soreness on his head from where he had hurt himself somewhere. There was a creek nearby and he headed in its direction, baited by the trickling sound of the water and something in the air that calmed him. Rounding the corner the bear tramped over flowers and jagged rocks, snout low to the ground, catching the fading scent of his deer in the dirt.

His scent meant the deer might be close by, but even the bear remembered that he'd been with the deer by the water not long ago. They'd sat together and drank from the stream, the skies opening and showering rain over their heads. Ground undisturbed, scent nearly gone, the bear sensed that his deer wasn't nearby, and hadn’t been for a while.

Pawing at the ground, the bear's sharp black claws scratched into the soil, his growls rumbling between bared teeth. He gutted the loam, angry to be alone, confusion brewing under his skin. He raised his snout and snarled at the moist air, slamming his paws in dirt with a loud roar.

The whiff of his deer led away from the water and he followed the trail, finding the flower meadow. More scents there, a musk similar to his deer's, only slightly different. He ambled over rocks and through the trees, coming upon a cleared glade and a house of wood.

The deer's scent was strong here, among the flowers and the wood smoke. Longing burst in his chest as the bear brushed against a tree trunk, rubbing his own scent into the wood, assuring no other predators made their way here. His deer would be safe. His deer was his alone.

A hulk of metal caught his eye and he ambled closer to examine it. It was cold, this beast, smooth and shining, bigger than even him. Snorting, he swiped a shoulder against it, the cold beast creaking as it lifted an inch off the ground. Walking around, sniffing at the ground, the bear saw a tree fallen in the path, split in two. Lying beside it was a weapon of stone, a forgotten relic. Like a spark of light in its head, the bear knew he needed to move the pieces of the tree. It would help keep his deer safe. He knew it. Opening his wide jaws, he bit into the bark and started dragging the tree into the forest, lugging it a few feet at a time. It was heavy, but the bear was strong and for his deer he would uproot every tree in the forest if he had to.

Once the path was clear, the bear marked his scent again, roaring gently into the still air, an afterthought of dominance.

Wandering back to the clearing, the bear lay on his belly with a huff, blinking around at the trees, his eyes drawn again and again to the house of wood.

**

Chris sat up with a muted cry. The forest hummed with life, bugs buzzing and crickets creaking, a multitude of them far beyond where he could see. It was night and the stars winked tauntingly at him.

“Fuck.”

He jumped to his feet, so accustomed to waking up outdoors naked that he didn’t even give his bare body a second thought. The door was unlocked when he pushed through it, brushing dirt and blades of grass from his face. The cabin was dark, the coals only a low glow in the grate, and he hurried to the bedroom, Tom’s name on his lips.

There he lay, sleeping peacefully, his lovely little fawn.

The flush that had laid claim to his cheeks for the past two days was gone, his skin cool and normal again.

“Tom,” he said, grinning as he cupped his cheek and breathed at his curls. “Sunflower. Wake up.”

Tom moaned quietly, rousing at his voice. His eyes were clear of the haze of fever, only tired and unfocused for a short moment.

“Chris?”  


Chris laughed. “Yes! How are you feeling?”

He scratched at his belly, peering down at it. “Not so terrible anymore. It’s calmed down.” And it really had, the throbbing pain thinned out to only a dull ache.

Testing the limit of his torso, he rolled onto his back and lifted his arms up, his muscles stretching deliciously after being curled so long over his cramped stomach.  


Chris eyed him, relief evident on his face.

Tom sighed and sagged into the mattress again, feeling weak. “Can you make me some tea, please? You can put whatever you want in it.” Chris nodded quickly, and Tom smiled gratefully, knowing that Chris would boil herbs specific to his symptoms and sweeten it with honey, just as Tom liked it.

As Chris made to stand, Tom grabbed his wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

"What?” Chris looked down at himself. There were scratches on his chest and shoulders, dried blood splattered down his neck and in the thick grooves of his palms, which were cut and bruised. The back of his head throbbed when he touched the tender knot under his hair that hadn’t been there before.

"What did you do to yourself?” Tom said, rising to an elbow, hands on him again.

"Nothing. I did nothing. I was outside just now.”

Understanding dawned on Tom’s face. They both knew what that meant. The memory loss, the patches of time lost in their day. Most often they woke up outside, nude and disoriented, like the survivors of some time traveling experiment gone wrong.

“You were upset,” he said softly, caressing the cuts gently.

Chris looked down, brows drawn together. He opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent, shaking his head. He tried again.

“I…I was just scared.”

Tom didn't pretend to not know what he meant. "I was scared too. I'd never felt anything like that.”

Chris sighed. “I can't lose you, Tom. I won't.”

Tom blinked and tears rose in his eyes. He scooted back and tugged on Chris’s arm. Lying down together, they hugged each other bright, fever sweat and dirt blood rising between them.

"But you're okay, little fawn?" Chris asked, voice thick. "Are you okay?"

Tom hated seeing the shine of tears in Chris’s eyes, and he started shaking, his own relief and exhaustion clumping together as he started crying too. His darling love, his Christopher. It wasn't often that he showed such vulnerability, no doubt having learned to shove it deep down beneath the hard shell that he'd created around his heart, the product of countless years of criticism and rejection at the hands of the townspeople that had started even before his family died, even before he was left to navigate this brutal world alone and at only the tender age of fourteen.

Where had Tom been at fourteen? Boarding school, wearing striped knee high socks and carrying his heavy bag of books? Chauffeured from lesson to lesson, memorizing words of French and Latin, plucking stiffly at the strings of his ancient violin, hoping to hide his stinging palm from his mother, struck again by his teacher for speaking out of turn, his excited curiosity quelled after the blow. And later, in the quiet dark of night cautiously touching himself under the sheets, biting his lip so his dorm mate wouldn't hear him.

And Chris? Chris had been sifting through the ashes for the remains of his family, had broken through the frozen earth with a dull shovel to bury his parents and younger brother and had, with bleeding hands and drying tears, started to rebuild their home from scratch.

A burning emotion surged inside him and he gathered Chris into his chest. "My darling love. I'm more than okay," he whispered, kissing the tip of Chris's nose, each round cheek, his lips. "I have you. You, who saved me in more ways than one. You, who loved me before anyone else ever dared, or cared to. I love you and you are my heart, and if my heart is okay, then so am I."

Chris squeezed his eyes shut, fat tears leaking to his ears. Cooing at him, Tom bent to kiss them dry, murmuring sweetly and brushing back his hair. They settled down to nap, breaths mingling, arms loose around each other. He woke again midmorning with even less pain. It was only a ghostly kind of sensation, his abdomen sore, as if he’d done a few hundred sit-ups.

But he felt good, and ravenous.

Chris helped him to the living room, sitting him in the chair before the fire. He served him tea and a plate of crackers, and Tom’s stomach growled with hunger. Eager to feed him now that he was feeling well again, Chris heated some stew from dinner the night before and Tom ate every bit, including a second helping, finally sitting quietly in front of the fire, sipping his tea.

Chris was careful with his touches that night. But the long separation of two days had them both desperate and delicately generous, mouthing at each other’s necks, stealing hard kisses, hands roaming over skin warm from the blankets. A soft trail of whispers on his chest had Tom arching into Chris’s lips, the skin on his stomach particularly sensitive after his strange illness. Chris licked at his belly button, hands skimming over his hipbones to curve low along his inner thighs.

Tom’s legs fell open, and when Chris took his cock in his mouth, he moaned and grabbed a handful of the sheets, head thrown back.

“Easy, easy,” he gasped, flinching at the hard suck of Chris’s mouth, wet and warm and so strong. Chris hummed and flicked his tongue along the slit, sending Tom into a low whine. Chris stroked his thumb down his perineum, cupping his heavy sac and slapping Tom’s cock on his own chin, the sound thickly wet. Tom smiled at him, eyes soft with affection.

How he loved this man. How impossible it was to imagine a life without him, and had it not been for his daring and, albeit stupid, escape from London, he might have continued to exist without Chris at his side. And Chris, unknowing and unaffected, would have gone on living in this place, alone. They wouldn’t have known all of _this_ , and Tom found that sobering.

Mouthing at his balls, Chris sucked one into his mouth and let it pop out, Tom groaning above him. But then something ridged under Chris’s thumb and he paused, looking down. His eyes narrowed.

“What—why’d you stop?”

“Hang on a second,” Chris murmured, jumping to his feet and hurrying for the oil lamp.

Huffing, Tom sat up on his elbows, cock hard and bobbing in the air. Eyes glazed with desire, he watched Chris light the oil lamp, his own erection standing tall and impressive against his belly, and his mouth watered, wanting to taste. Chris returned and held the lamp over Tom’s groin.

Tom stiffened. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking so closely?”

His heart raced. What if his horrible stomach pain wasn’t some kind of indigestion but signs of something worse, like a disease? Something he’d picked up in that bus depot bathroom years before when he’d been reckless and thoughtless and it was only now that he was beginning to fall ill, to show signs?

He swallowed, his distress mounting.

Chris bent between his legs and caressed his perineum again. Tom was becoming impatient despite his arousal, and he felt something close to panic edge into his mind the longer Chris stared between his legs. Reading his nervousness, Chris hadn’t meant to alarm him so much but he’d felt something odd along the skin that was usually smooth and tenderly full to the touch. With the lamp aloft, he peered closer.

A long and pink line extended from just beneath Tom’s sac down to just before his entrance, which was flushed pink and moist from Chris’s attention. Panicked, he cast worried eyes up at Tom.

“Have I hurt you? Been too rough on you?”

Tom’s mouth parted in surprise. “No. Never. I mean, you’re a lot to handle sometimes, but I love when you overwhelm me. Please tell me what this is about. What is it?”

Instead of answering, Chris rubbed the pad of his thumb down the red line and Tom’s eyes fluttered, his cock twitching. He mewled and tossed his head back, hips rolling forward. He’d always been sensitive there, but this seemed like more than usual. Chris stroked him again and Tom collapsed back on the bed, muttering a curse. Setting the oil lamp on the bedside table, Chris dragged Tom by the hips until he was flush with the edge of the mattress. His groin was in better light now, cast golden.

Chris’s mouth fell open.

The line was deeper than he originally thought, a groove dipping into the soft skin of Tom’s perineum. Like a ridge that Chris could swear was deepening by the second, especially with every moan and shiver Tom gave. Not believing his eyes and painfully excited, Chris took Tom’s cock in hand again. He wasn’t quite sure how to identify what was happening, or why, but there was a cloud of heat building in his chest. Tom’s moans and sighs weren’t those of pain or discomfort, and his heart soared.

Before him, Tom keened and writhed, and still Chris massaged his perineum, mouth drying at the severe blow of arousal in his gut. The ridge deepened, and insanely curious, Chris gripped Tom’s cock a little tighter, subconsciously twisting like he knew Tom liked, eyes frozen on the change happening in front of his eyes.

His beautiful Tom, who seemed to be experiencing a heightened level of stimulation, gutted moans spilling from his pretty mouth, back arching to force his hips closer to Chris’s gently prodding finger. The faster Chris stroked his cock, the more flushed the line appeared just beneath, until it was a deep slit, lengthening, unfolding like a flower.

Tom’s orgasm burst through him, a great spasm racking his body, arching it up like a bow. Chris panted, fist working his dripping cock, eyes fastened on the deep red skin now spread open under his fingers. The contractions in Tom’s cock pulled on the newly formed pussy, mirroring the pulses of his orgasm.

“Chris,” Tom croaked, lifting his head, eyes glazed. “I feel weird.”

Chris licked his hips and placed Tom’s shrinking erection on his pelvis. “Sunflower…I….”

Tom leaned up on his elbows. “What.”

“You…” Chris shook his head, placing his full palm over the heated core that was Tom’s new…vagina. Tom gasped and sat up in a hurry, cooling cum dripping down his chest.

Eyes wide, mouth falling open, Tom gaped down at himself. 

Nearly popping out of his head, blue eyes blinked wildly at Chris, wide and confused and clearly afraid.

“Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh—.” He was panicking, pale white and trembling.

Chris hurried to him. “Tom, breathe. Baby, it’s okay, just breathe for me.”

But Tom’s mouth was flapping open and closed, like a fish stranded on land, hands shaking.

“Tom, breathe goddammit.”

Legs splayed open, Tom was brutally exposed to him, not in any kind of way that Chris wasn’t used to. But there under the hang of Tom’s balls were vaginal lips, swollen out and flushed pink, so smooth and tight, the tiny dark pucker of the deeper canal, all presented to him so delightfully that Chris groaned, his big hands holding Tom’s thighs wide. Apart from the soft gathering of hair at the base of Tom’s cock, he was bare along this new slit, and the scent rising from it had Chris’s head spinning with desire and need. Already a slick dew was gathering over the lips, shining in the light from the oil lamp.

Without thinking, he dropped low and closed his mouth over this dripping flower, tongue delving in, licking at the moist and fragrant hole. Tom cried out and tried backing away, but Chris anchored his hips so that his face was crushed into his groin and he moaned at the taste of him, a distinct mix of male and female. He was sticky with natural lubricant, and prompted by only the smallest taste of his juices, Chris rolled his face into it.

“Chris! Please, oh god, what is _happening?_ ”

Chris was blind. He was a mist. He was a cloud. And he was exultant. Ears ringing, his skin tingled, every muscle tight, his heartbeat tipping forward on his tongue.

Tom struggled for a short instant, pushing at his head, legs kicking to get away, but Chris’s mouth on his new flesh stilled him after a moment, leaning back with both hands clawed in Chris’s hair, his stomach heaving with stuttered breaths. He stared at Chris feasting on him, groaning and pressing his tongue deeper into him and he gasped, dropping his head back, hips rolling, thighs trembling.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sobbed, tears blurring his sight, the ceiling a swimming swirl of brown wood. Gentler now, Chris eased the pressure, placing a hand on Tom’s chest to lie him flat on the bed.

“But what is it?” Tom asked meekly, peeking at Chris down his body. “Why is that there?”

“I don’t know, little flower. I don’t know. But you taste and smell amazing.” Tom sobbed again and covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking.

“No, my love. Don’t cry,” Chris murmured, giving the wet slit one last lick, Tom vibrating with a small cry as if he’d been shocked with light. Chris crawled up Tom’s body. Tom was shaking his head, mumbling about how and why and when, but Chris silenced him with soft kisses, slowly bringing his hands from his tear-stained face.

“Does it hurt, little flower? Are you in pain?”

Gasping, Tom blinked and tried to calm his heart. He shook his head. “No. N-not pain. Just— _ah_ —strange. It’s strange.” He licked his lips and peeked under his lashes. “Feels kinda nice, actually. But _why_ is it on me? What is it?”

Head down, eyes on where his own cock was tucked heavily against Tom’s new slit, Chris grinned before looking back at Tom.

“Looks like a pussy, little fawn.”

Blushing red, Tom’s lashes fluttered, speechless for a moment.

“Chris, I’m—I feel so, ah, squishy.”

Draped over him, the new angle brought Chris’s cock directly over Tom’s groin and something in Chris snapped to attention, a rough instinct taking over his mind.

“Tom,” he rasped, and they both froze. “You’re so wet.” His whispers were like screams in his head, shifting his hips so the tip of his cock nudged down the slick folds of Tom’s pussy.

Tom moaned and lifted his hips, desire and frightened confusion warring over his features.

“Don’t be afraid,” Chris whispered, reaching to hold Tom’s knees up, moving low over his entrance. He still hadn’t come, and his hips twitched with the urge to thrust down hard, to reach that peak where he could finally fill Tom to the brim. He inhaled and reined in his control, muscles bunching with the effort.

Tom blinked up at him, eyes swimming with tears, but there was a softness in his face, a quiet curiosity, more fear than anything, but gentle with expectation. This was Chris. He wouldn’t hurt him. And his core was pulsing with an urgency known to him only in the deepest throes of their passion. It was familiar and intimate, sacred to them, this feeling. He’d known it and lived in it for over two years. It was centered in a different place in his body now, his cock limp on his pelvis, his new and strange flesh pounding with anticipation.

Lamplight broke over them, cast in a soft glow. He lifted his head and sniffed at Chris’s beard and lips, the musk of his new sex powerful there, slightly acrid but sweet like ripe flowers and rainfall. Chris was deliciously sticky with it.

“You like it?” Chris whispered, eyes nearly black. “You taste even better.”

He nudged at his entrance again and Tom nodded fast, tears gathering again, but not in fear. He was anxious to feel Chris inside him in a whole new way, nails digging into his back. Gasping as Chris positioned him again, pushing Tom’s knees to his chest, Tom whined. He looked down, the lamplight pouring between their bodies, casting their centers in blinding silhouettes. Chris was lining himself to push in and Tom tensed, scrabbling at his shoulders.

And as Chris finally shoved in with all his desperate power, Tom screamed jaggedly, his inner muscles tightening. But the stretch wasn’t painful—not really, only a little—but so surprising. The intrusion was equally the same as how they would have sex before, but also wholly different, his new inner walls hugging him tight, swallowing his engorged cock with relish.

They fumbled on the bed for a moment, both eager to get closer to the other. Chris finally wrapped him in a bear hug, mouths hovering, pushing in the final few inches, slow and excruciating and wonderful.

Eyes squeezed shut, Tom groaned at the slight burn, feeling Chris settle deep inside him, impossibly thick and long. He was in his throat. Was he in his throat?

“Okay? You’re okay?” Chris hardly seemed capable of speech, words slurred, eyes frantic as they flicked between Tom’s own. Breathless, Tom nodded, trying to shift beneath Chris. But the tug of his inner muscles made him collapse back with a startled gasp. It was the oddest sensation, Chris planted so snug in him, as if the more he swelled the tighter Tom got.

“Fuck,” Chris moaned, shuddering. Strands of his hair fell free of his bun, the ends ticking Tom’s face.

Tom felt himself leaking around Chris, felt the warm drip of his wetness, the slick sounds almost too much to bear. And when Chris pulled back, dragging along his walls, Tom arched, a tiny throb of pleasure rooted deep inside. But there was another pulse point his fingers itched to touch and he reached down between them, curious to explore. Over his cock, past his sac, he traced his fingertips over his new opening, spread wide by Chris, lips swollen and pink. He massaged the fat folds of skin, heart racing at how erotic the whole thing was, feeling himself up as Chris strained to hold still. A tender nub throbbed at the top, but he was unable to see it, relying solely on touch to feel it out, nudge tentatively at it.

Chris slammed back in and Tom choked out a broken cry, body rocking on the mattress. He pressed down at the nub as Chris started a quick and almost violent pace, his face flushing with heat.

Why was this happening? Was he dreaming? Were he and Chris in some kind of suspended dream together? Over time, Tom had become comfortable with the odd things that tended to happen during his life with Chris. They’d never actually discussed their missing patches of memory, waking up in or out of the cabin, and it was clear that neither of them felt the need to directly address it, either. But repeatedly seeing the brown-furred bear around their cabin when Chris was decidedly missing, made Tom suspect that the two things were directly linked. Not to mention the flakes of light seen floating in the inner darkness between the tree trunks, or the shapes and shadows that sometimes slinked low to the ground just out of sight. He often wondered what his role was in their disappearances and how the sense of welcoming safety he’d started to feel from the woods, despite what could easily have creeped him out, had passed from anxious doubt to familiar ease.

Chris rocked above him, arms straining, sweat dripping down his face, and Tom decided to accept this as he had accepted everything else.

A drop of sweat landed at the corner of Tom’s mouth and he darted his tongue out to taste the salt of his love’s efforts. Chris groaned and sped up, the slap of their skin alarming in the hushed air of the room, their shadows bouncing on the walls.

And as Chris gathered him in his arms, Tom’s legs falling limp to each side of him, his burning kiss stifled his doubts and reared high the arousal that had been simmering under his skin since looking between his legs to see this new surprise.

“Your pussy’s so pretty,” Chris mumbled, and Tom burned red to the root of his hair. Chris took his face with both hands, his eyes dark with longing. “It is. The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

“ _Chris_.” He tried turning away but Chris snatched his mouth in a hard kiss, hips ramming in, weight and scent and heat devouring Tom. They rutted on the bed, the frame creaking.

Taking his wrists, Chris held Tom to the mattress and snapped his hips forward and back, pulling his cock out to the tip and thrusting in to the root. Tom panted and strained to see where Chris disappeared into him.

“Touch yourself. Just like that. Good, love.”

Tom’s fingers circled over the nub, heart galloping as something started to build inside him, a heat flowing from behind his navel and outward. It mounted, a strike of light with every thrust Chris gave, but he couldn’t quite snatch it close. These new sensations were too much, too foreign to him. It would all lead to the same place, but Tom was having trouble finding it. It felt good to have Chris inside him, but the escalating tension in his lower muscles promised something even more wonderful, something he couldn’t quite reach.

“Gonna come,” Chris gasped. “Gonna come, little fawn. Please.”

And Tom gasped _yes_ because there was nothing more important to him in the entire world than to see and feel Chris release into him, into this new wonder they could play with and explore. A great comfort settled in Tom’s chest over the bundled mass of worry that had resided there only moments before.

With a small smile, Tom wrapped Chris close and lifted his legs, bracketing Chris’s big body. And then Chris stilled with a rough groan, pressing Tom to the mattress to get as deep as possible. Tom’s eyes widened as he felt the first pulses, felt the first spurts of hot cum, gushing in and filling him.

“Yes…” Chris moaned, eyes rolling up, hips vibrating. He placed a wide hand on Tom’s belly, thrusting in again. “Fill you up, little flower. My love.”

Tom held still as Chris finished, a persistent ache in his core hinting at something wonderful, just missed. Trembling, Chris eased down on him and Tom accepted his weight, wrapping him close, their skin slick with fresh sweat. Chris still pulsed, still deep inside him.

“Christ, I’m still…still going, babe.” Chris squeezed his eyes shut, grunting into Tom’s neck. Tom kissed his brow and stroked his hair, legs wrapped around the back of him. With every brush of Chris’s pelvis, the nub between Tom’s legs thumped with sensation, like coals stoked red.

He was still in a bit of shock over what had started out as a normal evening for them, turning into something out of a kind of…of fantasy. Did he really have a vagina? A _pussy,_ as Chris had so fondly started calling it? Utterly fascinated by it, Chris seemed, snaking his hand down between them to stroke at Tom, dipping his fingers in the wallops of cum pouring out.

“But why?” Chris asked, breath ghosting over Tom’s throat.

Speechless, Tom remained silent. And then, “Do you think that’s what it was?”

Chris lifted his head, eyes still vaguely glazed from his orgasm. “What do you mean?”

“The stomach pain. The fever. Do you think it was because my body was making…this?” His eyes flicked down to his pelvis and then right back again, cheeks reddening.

Frowning delicately, Chris blinked twice and then turned his head. Tom followed his line of sight out the far window, outside of which was the distant tree line, swaying and exuberant

**

Tom couldn’t sleep.

He was having trouble lying in a way that didn’t make him extremely aware of his new body part, which was still sticky and tender from earlier. When Chris had softened and slipped out of him, Tom felt disturbingly hollow, aching for a more fulfilling completion. When all was quiet and Chris was exhaustingly asleep, Tom braved past his doubt and touched his fingers to his core.

Heat rose from him, moist and sensual. He swallowed and blinked at the dark ceiling, fingers reaching. Smooth, soft skin, parted deep where before there had only been the familiar spongy swell of his perineum. Biting his lip, he nudged a finger between the slick folds and gasped silently, feeling the deeper yawning beyond the small puckered entrance. How beautifully Chris had filled him, stretched the lips so that they gaped wide at each side of his thick cock. Tom trailed his free hand up his chest, palm brushing a nipple.

Something tingled deep inside him, a reminder of the muted pleasure that had started to build as Chris fucked into him, but there was that twinge again from the nub just above his folds. Tom lifted his head, even though he couldn’t see anything in the dark. The nub—what he’d learned was called a clit from locker room talk among the other boys at school—pulsed under his hovering thumb. Tempted, he sank his fingers inside as fast as he could and pressed down on the clit. Pleasure thrummed through him and he snatched his hand back, panting.

Frustrated, face red, he huffed and blinked tears away, confusion and desire warring inside him. And so he lay throbbing, hoping, rather senselessly, to hide his squirming from Chris. There were floating lights outside the window, fairies or fireflies or something even more mysterious, that kept vigil over them. Tom sighed and tossed onto his back.

Finally rolling closer, Chris kissed his temple, voice husky from sleep. “Want a bath?”

It was probably close to three in the morning, but Tom nodded yes. Normally, Chris would heat the water and even the temperature with snow but because it was mid-September the pump outside provided water that was cool enough to be refreshing and not bothersome.

Walking was an entirely new sensation. Tucked under his cock, protected by his hanging sac, he felt his slick folds slide together. Thighs still sticky from his juices and Chris’s climax, Tom took his time heading down the hall, feeling his humid skin rub. He found he rather liked it.

Just before climbing into the tub, Tom was stalled by Chris’s lips on his neck, a big hand searching under his balls for what waited there. Tom gasped and rose on his tiptoes, grabbing Chris’s shoulders for balance.

“I didn’t dream it,” Chris said, pushing two thick fingers into his folds. Tom blushed, he was so wet.

“I had thought it was a dream too,” Tom confessed quietly.

Chris’s eyes were soft when he looked at Tom. “We can ignore it. Would you like that instead?”

“No,” Tom answered truthfully, anxiety spiking. Ignore this? The incessant aching? Never. He squirmed and Chris’s fingers sank deeper. Something sparked inside him and he whined. “No, please. I feel…I feel like I—I need more.”

“Bend over for me, little fawn.”

Tom hurried to do as Chris asked, planting his hands on the rim of the wooden tub. The night had passed in such a blur for him, he’d hardly been able to fully recognize the importance of what had happened. His small ministrations on himself weren’t enough. He needed more. Desperately.

Only the light of the moon streaming in past the curtains of the little window high on the wall. But even the dimness couldn’t keep Tom from looking over his shoulder at where Chris knelt behind him.

A broad thumb brushed his back entrance, and Chris’s breath ghosted over it, soft.

“I know this so well,” he murmured, stroking Tom’s hole, the one Chris had claimed so many times over the years, lovingly and with passion. Tom whined and rocked back on his heels. Chris chuckled and slapped his flank lightly.

His pussy—because it was his, no matter how strange he might still feel about it—pulsed and Tom arched, mumbling at Chris to please, please, please.

Chris’s tongue on his pussy made Tom jump, his cock slowly filling. He could feel it hanging between his spread legs, Chris face pressed into his folds. He slowly ate him out, just as he had on the bed the night before. Big hands held Tom’s trembling thighs, and he imagined what he might smell like, fresh juices bursting free, Chris’s old semen still caked there. But Chris was moaning, sinking two long fingers into his new hole, pumping them, sounding for all the world as if Tom was the best thing he’d ever tasted. And it had always been so, Chris lavishing him with tongue and saliva and determined lips, feasting on him since the moment Tom had given in to his own desires two years before. This was no different, this new core of Tom’s, so much of his arousal pulsing between the two holes, as if his body were unsure which wanted Chris more.

Chris licked a stripe from where his fingers pumped into him and down to where the nub throbbed in anticipation.

Tom keened. “Right there. Oh yes, please. Right there. Don’t stop.” He rocked and gripped the edge of the tub, fingers slipping on the smooth wood. Ducking his chin lower, Chris sucked at the tender nub, sinking a third finger in. He wished he could see Tom’s face, but his body was reacting so powerfully, he didn’t want to interrupt Tom’s release.

“Right th…oh yes, my love. Right there. So—so…close.” His legs trembled, his vision started to short out, and Tom’s chest expanded with the force of his building orgasm. Drawing back, Chris used his other thumb to swirl the nub, continuing to fuck him with his fingers

He peered around Tom’s hips at him, bent over the tub, curly head tucked into the crook of his arm. Moaning, Tom looked so deliciously wanton, toes flexing on the floor, thighs parted for him. Chris licked his lips, tasting Tom’s juices there and felt his cock twitch painfully. He was fully hard and desperate to be inside Tom again, but he wanted Tom to come from this first.

Tom couldn’t breathe. His chest with tight with need, legs tingling. Chris’s fingers pumped in again, once, twice, and on the thirst thrust, something sprung loose in Tom’s belly, a tidal wave that crashed up through his heart and into his brain, crimson red with flecks of light that blinded him. He screamed and his elbows buckled, falling low to the rim of the tub. Tears blurred his sight, all sound smothered with the crash of his climax, and deep in his core he felt a hot gush of moisture push free of him.

Chris pulled his fingers out as the sound of liquid hit the floor. From a great distance, he heard Chris’s awed curse, hands splayed on Tom’s shaking flanks. But Tom was drifting, the half-moon hanging high in the black sky tilting in the corner of his eye, and then he was falling with a whimper, black edging in and devouring the light all at once.

**

Chris knew Tom was moments from coming. His voice had taken that breathy lilt that Chris adored so much, as if even the act of talking was too much of an effort when Chris was fucking him good and hard.

And then Tom did come, and loudly, body convulsing as he cried out. He tightened around Chris’s fingers, the small mouth of his opening pulsing as if to swallow him deeper. But then a flood of liquid burst from between his fingers, driving them out, spewing over his chest.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” he gasped, scooting back, eyes wide as Tom squirted onto the floor. It was a clear liquid, and there were streams of it, coating him. Pupils blown, Chris’s arousal spiked.

Tom made the tiniest noise and then he was falling. Chris hurried to catch him, gathering him in his arms, palming his face and murmuring to him quietly. But Tom was passed out, eyes rolled up in his head, mouth parted in stunned bliss.

“Okay, love. You’re okay,” Chris whispered, smoothing his hair, kissing his flushed cheeks. He placed him gently on the floor and parted his legs. Veins of fluid ran down Tom’s thighs, his pussy sopping wet with it. Hooking Tom’s leg over his elbow, Chris took himself in hand and spread Tom open to shove in.

Oh, he was tight. So smooth and tight, brimming with wetness. Chris groaned and slammed in the last half of his cock, Tom’s pussy swallowing him whole. He collapsed over Tom, bracing on his forearms as he started a quick rhythm, Tom’s limp body rocking beneath him.

“Baby,” he gasped, grasping his head. “Little fawn.”

Tom’s brows puckered after a moment, and he moaned as Chris continued thrusting. He came round with a startled gasp, lashes fluttering over eyes still slightly unfocused.

“Chris?” He wrapped his arms around Chris’s shoulders as Chris whispered sweet comforts into his ear and pounded him into the hard wooden floor.

They kissed and nipped at each other, bruising necks and collarbones, Tom’s cries and his grunts echoing in the bathroom.

“Fuck me _yes_ ,” Tom breathed, eyes heavy, still high on his climax. His lips were rosy from rough kisses. “Make me come again. Please. I wanna come.”

Growling now, Chris reached low and swirled his thumb over the swollen bundle of nerves at the top of his pussy and Tom curved into him with a broken moan, nails scratching.

“Please yes,” he sobbed. “Faster. Faster.”

Chris snapped his hips forward, hair hanging in his face, eyes sharp on Tom’s lips, the color blooming on his chest and neck, the sudden clenching—

And then Tom came again, neck arching back, that same gush of liquid forcing Chris out. He peered down between their bodies at where Tom flooded the floor, screaming, legs trembling on the planks. Chris was still hard, and so was Tom, cock lying in a red curve on his belly. He took him in hand and gave him a few solid pumps.

Tom shrieked, every muscle tight, and as soon as the flow between his legs ebbed Chris shoved in again, grunting with every thrust.

Eyes rolling back, Tom’s cock gave a few weak pulses, a heavy cream spilling from the enflamed tip. He was hardly coherent, head lolling on the floor as Chris finally found his release, spilling hard into Tom’s pussy. He rammed in, over and over, balls drawing up as he emptied his load. Holding Tom by the shoulders, he held him still and pressed in as far as he could go, his seed pulsing sluggish and thick.

The tub of water sat forgotten in all their daze as they fell into a deep and exhausted sleep, spent and collapsed on the floor.

**

Tom woke again to the gentle sound of lapping water. He opened his eyes to the muted light of early morning streaming in through the lace curtains at the window, and a soft humming in the air.

He was in the tub and Chris was bathing him with a broken bar of soap.

"What are you smiling about?" Tom rasped with a small smile of his own.

Chris shrugged and dragged the soap along the inside of Tom's thighs. "I just love you, is all."

Tom huffed out a short laugh, wincing at the sore pull of his muscles.

"Darling. D-Did I...did I—.” He gulped. “—Squirt?"

He'd heard talk of some women who could do that, the boys at school roughhousing when they'd heard of the rare conquest with a woman who squirted at climax. He was never really sure what that meant exactly, but it seemed to be something that happened infrequently and spoke of the prowess of the boy doing the fucking. From what he’d just experienced, it was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

Chris, legs folded under him on the floor, skimmed a thumb over Tom's brow, eyes gentle.

"Yeah, you did."

Tom burned red. "I-I'm sorry. Was it gross? I don't know exactly how to control that—."

"Hey," Chris said, sitting up. "Hey, enough of that now. You...that was—I mean, Tom. You were amazing."

Sinking in the water again, Tom lowered his lashes, the tips of his fingers and toes still tingling from his multiple orgasms.

"It felt really good," he admitted quietly and Chris grinned.

"I noticed."

"Shut up," Tom smiled, blushing again, and they both laughed.

"How do you feel, little flower?"

"Sore. Like, everywhere."

"I'm sorry."

"You are not, stop lying."

Chris shrugged and swept the bar of soap over his hip.

"Why do you pull out when I—" he gulped. "Squirt."

"It forces me out, almost. It's very strong. Your current."

Tom covered his face with both hands. "Oh my _god!_ "

They laughed and Tom pulled Chris into the tub with him, water sloshing over the edges as Chris settled over him like a heavy blanket. They kissed, lips soft and patient as birds twittered and sang out in the tree branches.

**

It was like a fever. Or a heat. And Tom was afflicted with it, desperate and yearning.

Nights were worse, when Chris was lying beside him, all heated muscled bulk and Tom a squirming mess. He'd lost count of the number of times Chris would take him each night, sinking into him just as they lay down to rest, again and again by midnight, again and again before dawn. Tom was usually sticky and covered with cum and juices by morning, their sheets drenched. He bathed more than once a day, lying in the tub and playing with his new body part. He liked sinking his fingers in, sometimes four at a time, but it was never compared to how well Chris filled him. Instead he flicked and rubbed at his clit, biting his lip as he brought himself to orgasm, squirting into the bathwater, collapsing back with a grateful moan.

He was insatiable. Chris didn't deny him release every time he took Tom, but still Tom craved orgasm, thinking about it day and night, pussy throbbing at the mere sight of Chris out the window, the sounds of his determined grunts as he split the firewood, sweat dripping down his face. Mouth watering, moisture gathering along the slit of his pussy, Tom would press his thighs together seeking some blessed friction to ease his ache, hands gripping the countertop.

Chris seemed overjoyed by Tom's extreme reactions to him. Not that there was any lack of positive reactions before—they fucked plenty, and vigorously, before Tom’s new body part had appeared—but now Chris had two holes to play with and he seemed determined to pound Tom into the mattress or the table or the floor in search of every possible wave of pleasure. It was like he wanted Tom always filled to the brim with his cum, whispering about how Tom was his only and he would breed him good and hard, wanting his scent on him at all times. Such talk, filthy and naughty and passionate, made Tom’s blood sing, and he would die a tiny death with every climax, feeling the stars explode in his head and the moon hang itself on the anchor of his ribs.

“Is this little cunt mine?” Chris murmured one morning, pinning Tom to the bed, a hand covering his hot pussy.

“Yes,” Tom gasped, tugging on his wrists to no avail.

“And is this mine?” Chris slid his hand lower, his fingers pressing into the furled skin of his other hole.

“Everything. It’s all yours.”

Flipping Tom onto his hands and knees, Chris sank into his pussy with a rough thrust, jolting Tom and making him yelp. Gripping his hips, Chris fucked him hard, heavy balls slapping Tom’s hanging cock. It was triple stimulation, cock flopping, Chris filling his cunt, a wide thumb breaching his back entrance.

Tom sobbed and grabbed at the sheets, anchored to Chris, bent to his very will. And when he felt that rising wave in his chest, he looked back at him over his shoulder.

“Stay in me. Don’t pull out. Please. I want you inside when I come.”

He saw Chris nod, a look of awe on his handsome face, and then he bore down, bending over Tom with both feet on the bed, smacking into him almost violently. Tom came with a loud cry, and with him the flood from deep inside. Chris thrust hard and stayed glued to him, teeth gritted. It was phenomenal, like a fount of water trying to gush past the stopper that was Chris’s straining cock, bubbling around him, a great surge that still managed to rain down on the sheets.

The stimulation was too much for Chris and he came with a shout, Tom’s pulse beating with his own, drowning in his orgasm, a loud ringing in his ears. Perhaps they fell off the edge of the earth, or were tossed into the sky, he couldn’t tell, but he wanted to live in this feeling forever.

It wasn’t until he heard Tom whimper in pain that he blinked his eyes open. They were lying on their sides, still buried deep, and Chris had his teeth sunk into the lean meat of Tom’s shoulder.

“Ow…ow, ow,” Tom whispered with a grimace as Chris unlatched his mouth. The skin was broken where his canines had dug in too hard, and there was the sharp taste of copper on his tongue.

“I’m sorr—,” he started, but Tom shushed him, twisting back for a kiss.

“Such a good little cunt,” Chris murmured, feeling the small quivers in Tom’s pussy, hugging his cock so snugly. Tom smiled and relaxed back into him, dozing off as Chris hummed something slow and sweet in his ear.

A shaft of late light crept over his eyes hours later and Tom jerked away, bumping the back of his head on a tree. He was in the forest, naked and covered in dew. His shoulder smarted and he angled his head back to see a bite mark on his skin, red and starting to bruise. He was almost immediately aware of the moist lips between his legs, clenching his thighs to feel them rub together.

He looked around, but Chris was nowhere to be seen. Getting to his feet, Tom started back for the cabin, his bare feet sinking into the spongy moss covering the ground. His breaths were loud in the still hush of evening, the fading sun spilling through the tree trunks so that long columns of shadows beamed ahead of him, pointing the way to home.

A twig snapped behind him and Tom gasped, spinning in place. A giant bear lumbered out from behind the farthest tree, cutting into the setting sun so that only its great bulk was outlined in gold. But their eyes met and across the great space between them, Tom felt a loving sort of kinship take root in his belly and he was not afraid.

The bear huffed a gentle breath, lifting its snout and sniffing in his direction. Tom smiled and ducked his head, oddly shy in the presence of so great a beast. And then the bear padded on its way, circling a wide arc around Tom, clearly eyeing him still, watching.

Heart pounding loudly, Tom started back toward the cabin, knowing the direction by heart. As he entered the clearing, he looked back but the bear was gone, disappearing silently into the deeper forest.

Seized by a roaring thirst, Tom rounded the cabin and bent at the pump out back, working the lever and cupping his hands to gather the cool liquid. He drank it down and splashed some on his face and neck, staying braced on his knees to let his thigh muscles ease a bit.

And then strong arms were around him and he squeaked, straightening fast.

“Mmm, it’s only me, little fawn,” Chris rumbled into his ear, voice vibrating through Tom’s back.

“You scared me.” Tom turned in his arms and wrapped Chris close, kissing him softly before biting Chris’s bottom lip.

Chris groaned and jutted his hips forward, catching Tom’s pelvis in a quick thump. Tom laughed when Chris took his hand and pulled him through the back door, letting it slam closed as they rushed down the hall.

Since their couplings had taken a drastic turn for the messier, gorgeous and raw, Chris had thought it wise to lay towels out all over the house. Falling onto one, low together before the fireplace, cold and without embers, Tom pushed Chris down on his back. Trailing his lips down his throat, he paid devoted worship at the smooth skin there, dotted with dew and flakes of grass, as his own was. Each nipple received a thorough lick and tug of teeth, just as Chris liked it. Leaving them rosy and peaked, Tom continued down the ridged center of his chest, down the firm bumps of his abdomen, over his belly button and kissing the trail of hair.

Chris watched him through lowered lids, the thick fronds of his lashes trembling as he blinked slowly. His erection bobbed before Tom, twitching as if trying to reach his mouth, and Tom smiled, kissing the tip and then swallowing him as far as he could go. The bulbous head was thick as it nudged the back of his throat, working his tongue down the wide vein, using his hand to cover the rest. He sucked at him, moaning around his mouthful, his clit jumping with eagerness. Ever the impatient one, Chris rose to his feet in a hurry, standing before where Tom knelt. He pushed into his mouth again, Tom holding Chris’s thighs for balance. Looking up at him, Tom let Chris fuck gently into his mouth, not able to swallow him down whole. But Chris knew how far to thrust before Tom would choke, and sometimes he would test that limit, snapping his hips forward so that Tom’s throat clenched and he pulled away, coughing wetly, eyes tearing. Now was one of those times, gripping Tom’s head and moving his hips fast. Tom knew to sit still, concentrating on his breathing, blinking up at Chris with adoration. He inched his hand between his legs and pumped his cock a few times before reaching lower and fondling his pussy.

“Yeah, little fawn. Good boy. Touch your cunt. Easy now.” He slowed his pace, thrusting gently into Tom’s mouth, eyes on Tom’s hand between his legs. “Take the lube, baby. Open yourself up for me.”

Knowing what he meant, Tom stretched his arm and scrabbled for the lube on the side table. Dipping his fingers in, he angled his arm back and pressed his slicked fingers to his back entrance, breaching after a few determined shoves. He moaned around Chris’s cock, stretching himself, his pussy throbbing. Chris moved his hips almost lazily as Tom worked himself open, knees spread wide, cock hanging heavily. Long fingers caressed his hair, twirling a long curl and giving it a teasing tug. Tom hummed and batted his lashes, loving how Chris licked his lips.

Lying down again, Chris maneuvered Tom so that he sat astride his thighs, facing away from him.

“Lean forward, sunflower. There you go.” Chris’s hand on his back, Tom braced his hands on Chris’s thighs, looking back to see Chris take himself in hand. “Ease back now. Good boy, just like that.”

Tom felt the tip of Chris’s cock part the folds of his pussy, and as he sank back and back, Chris filled him deeper and wider until Tom was sitting on his lap, panting at the throb inside him.

“Look at that,” Chris whispered, voice hushed with awe. He had his head lifted to better see Tom’s bottom presented to him. “Your little cunt stretched so wide around me. And here—,” he said, caressing Tom’s empty hole. “—all mine.”

He slid his pointer finger into Tom’s hole and whispered for Tom to start rocking back on him. Tom did, feeling the penetration in both holes. Every time he rolled forward, Chris’s cock and finger slid out only to be swallowed deep when he rolled back again. He fucked himself on Chris, tightening his lower muscles just to hear Chris gasp and groan.

“You like that, little fawn? Full in both holes?”

Tom pinched his nipple and arched his neck. “ _Yes._ ”

With his free hand, Chris reached around his cock and rubbed at Tom’s clit. Tom’s legs clenched and it was only moments before he came, squirting a puddle on Chris’s abdomen.

“Yes, fuck yes,” Chris breathed, letting his head fall back on the floor, body jerking as Tom whined and trembled in his climax. He wilted just after, and Chris scrambled to wrap him close, flipping them so that Tom lay on his back. Both dripping now, Chris pushed Tom’s legs to so far up against his chest, his knees practically touched the floor.

“So flexible, my flower. Look at you. Still with me, baby?”

Tom moaned, eyes half-closed and dazed. Pushing into his pussy, Chris held him down with a hand on each leg and pounded him hard, tip to root, over and over. Tom’s eyes sharpened and he grunted with each plunge, holding onto Chris’s forearms.

“I love you,” he whispered, and Chris exhaled roughly, returning the whisper, putting his weight behind each thrust. Tom came again, crying out weakly as his cock erupted, white strings of cum striping his chest.

“Again,” Chris said, voice rough, delving deep and stroking Tom’s sensitive clit.

Tom arched with a broken cry, shaking his head, babbling no please too much. Neck veins popping, face flooding with heat, he came again, another copious flood squirting onto Chris, who kept his cock lodged deep, the wave surging past and around it. Chris growled and held Tom down, arms vibrating with strain, Tom’s legs hanging limp in the air.

Tom collapsed back, spent and breathless, on the verge of fainting. He mumbled and shook his head and Chris, endeared, set his legs carefully on the floor and gathered Tom up.

Kisses on his face, beard scratching at his skin, Tom squirmed and scrunched his eyes, wrapping Chris closer anyway. Chris laughed and lapped at the cooling cum over Tom’s chest, lips smacking loudly in the darkening room.

“I’m close. Stay awake for me?”

“Mmm,” Tom agreed, and then squeaked when Chris hauled him up and propped him on his hands and knees, spreading his legs to settle between. Supported on trembling arms, Tom blinked his eyes to clear his head, but he was still drowning in the star-fire that were his orgasms, ear still ringing.

Chris gave his neglected hole a quick rub with his thumb, pressing it in and keeping it there. When he breached his pussy, Tom grunted and splayed his hands on the towel, toes curling as Chris sank in deep.

Arms buckling, Tom let his head rest on the floor, pinching his nipples. He always loved this part, when Chris would grip his hips to bruise, stuttering into him as if he couldn’t wait another moment before being buried inside Tom. Simultaneously rough and gentle, he would spear Tom’s pussy and caress the nape of his neck, smoothing a wide hand down the length of his spine to smack at his round rump.

“Again,” he gasped, mouth parted. “Please again?”

Chris spanked him once more and Tom’s pussy clenched, making Chris falter in his rhythm, groaning deep.

“My little fawn,” he growled, picking up the pace, pulling Tom to him as he fucked forward. They rutted on the floor, the living room in semi-darkness with no fire and the sun inching its way to the west. Like a steadfast bull, Tom mused with blissed affection, cheek to the floor as Chris rammed into him from behind. And when his pace became frantic and hurried, he knew Chris was close.

But instead of coming inside his pussy, as he’d been doing for weeks now, Chris pulled out and then bullied past the somewhat loose rim of Tom’s other hole. Tom startled and groaned into the floor, pushing back until Chris was sunk to the root. Oh, he’d missed that, hissing at the burning stretch.

After a handful of rough thrusts, Chris pulsed and poured his load into Tom, cock slick from Tom's lush wetness.

"Yes," Tom mouthed, voice gone, vision slanted at an angle along the floor. Chris stayed embedded in him until he was empty of everything.

Numb, they stayed frozen as they were, Tom splayed on the floor, Chris kneeling behind him. And then Tom blinked.

"Water," he rasped, tongue feeling dry, throat scratchy. Chris eased him to the floor and then hurried to the pump outside. He returned with a cup and squatted beside Tom to help him drink. And Tom drank, and drank and drank, feeling horribly dehydrated.

Afterward, Chris carried him to the bath and washed them clean before settling in bed with him to sleep, dinner and hunger forgotten in their heady exhaustion.

**

It was late October and Tom was rotating the almonds and pecans in the back room one afternoon. He wanted to lay the older ones out in the sun to bake and smear with honey for dessert, but he wasn't sure what Chris planned for dinner. He was hoping for deer meat with vegetables and potatoes in a stew, his favorite.

Chris had been out in his shed all morning, coming in only once with a determined look on his face, spinning Tom and getting a good look at his bottom. Tom, confused, had protested faintly, but was left to wonder what that was about when Chris left again in a rush. Walking past with a bushel of vegetables in his arms, Tom heard the grinding whine of a saw and then the fainter, smaller _whisps_ he recognized from when Chris carved his figurines out on the porch. Shrugging, Tom dropped the vegetables in the back room and collected the almonds and pecans from the bed of the pickup truck. They were warm from the sun and nicely toasted.

Just the thought of Chris's hands on the saw had Tom squirming quietly in the kitchen, drizzling honey on the pecans and almonds, catching long strings of it on his fingers and licking them clean.

He was so wet. He was _always_ wet, a single glance at Chris, or even the mere thought of him enough to make his pussy moist. Squeezing his legs together only did so much, fidgeting on the stool in the kitchen, a spoon of honey in his hand.

There were pounding footsteps on the porch and then the door crashed open. Tom yelped and the spoon clattered to the floor, honey strings arcing in the air and sticking messily to his face.

"What is _with_ you?" Tom shrieked, trying to wipe the honey off his face and effectively smearing it all over. But one look at Chris's face—eyes wide and proud, close-lipped smile secretively jubilant—made Tom pause. "Are you alright?"

Chris stalked across the kitchen and Tom's eyes widened, but then he was being hauled into the living room and down the hall and tossed straight onto their bed.

"It's been a few hours, darling. A long time, I know, but _easy_."

"I made something for you." Chris was trying to untie the tight knot of Tom's apron from around his neck, nearly throttling him.

"For me?" Tom gasped, wincing. He yanked Chris's hands away and reached up for a kiss.

"Mmm," Chris affirmed, kissing the sticky patches of skin on his face, licking the honey. "I think you'll like it."

“Let me see.”

“I want you to close your eyes.”

Tom pursed his lips to show he was only indulging Chris but did as he was told, letting Chris pull off his pants and, after struggling with the apron again, simply ripping the strings apart.

Eyes closed, Tom gasped. “But that was my fav—.”

“Hush, little fawn. I’ll set it right again.”

Chris moved and huffed above him, and Tom’s ears strained to make out what he was doing. His skin pricked with expectancy, letting his fingertips rest on whatever part of Chris he could still track, his arm, the curve of his waist, a hard thigh. Finally, Chris settled down and Tom sensed he was hovering above him.

“Now, can I trust you to keep your eyes closed or do I have to tie this over them?” He trailed the edge of the apron on Tom’s cheek.

Tom swallowed, and took a deep breath. “You can trust me.”

Chris kissed the tip of his nose. “I always have.”

His voice was low and unhurried and something about it made Tom whimper, heart jumping in his throat.

“Chris—.”

“Easy now, little fawn. Lift your legs for me, love.”

Tom obeyed, bending at the knee. A warm gust on his groin made him stiffen with a gasp, but it was only Chris’s breath on him, kissing the lean skin of his inner thigh.

Keeping an arm over his waist to keep him still, Chris licked at his pussy, humming happily.

“Look how wet you are for me. Did I keep you waiting, sunflower?”

“You were gone for so long,” Tom whined, shifting his head from side to side. “I needed you.”

“I’m here now.”

He licked and sucked at his pussy, smearing a glob of lube over the entrance just below. Fucking him with two fingers, Chris slicked him even more with his tongue, moaning into Tom, face shifting as Tom shifted. But when Chris pulled away and gently guided Tom onto his hands and knees, Tom wished he could open his eyes and see for himself what Chris was doing.

But he waited patiently, head down, ears catching the faintest sounds. The soft rasp their skin made when Chris rubbed his back, a wet sound that he couldn’t place, and then Chris’s inhale just before pushing into his pussy.

Tom arched his back at the swell, biting his lip and moaning from deep in his chest. Chris whispered to him, and Tom imagined that he was looking at Tom that very moment, those blue eyes so sharp on him, every breath, every twitch memorized and stored for later. For so quiet a man, Chris was especially observant, those squinted eyes catching everything, and Tom felt like the rarest butterfly under a microscope, his every glitter-dusted speck lovingly inspected.

Something hard and oiled nudged at his second hole and Tom froze.

“Chris?”

“Shh, baby. Nice and easy now. Relax, love.”

Tom took a deep breath and exhaled, resting down on his forearms. Pumping slowly, Chris pushed another object into his hole. Tom was used to his cock and fingers, but this was something completely different; something harder and heavier, breaching him inch by inch, until something thick and long was seated inside him.

“Please, Chris… _oh god.”_

The stretch was too much, filled in both holes; the smoother, more natural feel of Chris and the denser, heavier feel of…whatever that was.

“Open your eyes, baby. Look.”

Tom blinked around until his gaze landed on a tall mirror standing on two clawed feet beside the bed. It was a tall thing, antique by the scuffed and oiled look of it. But what he saw reflected back at him made his jaw drop open. From that angle, he could see his bottom presented pertly to Chris, who was balls deep in his pussy, his ass spread open by a dark ball of sorts. Only, the ball was the stopper of a much longer object. Stuck inside him was the rest of it.

“Chris,” he breathed, rising higher on his arms, craning his neck to get a good look at himself.

“Like it?” Chris asked, all grins. “Bought the mirror at the penny shop in town. Made the plug myself.”

“Plug?” Tom croaked, fascinated by how the skin of his bottom stretched tight with every thrust from Chris.

“Something I could use to fill you up, both ways.”

“But what—.” Tom gasped when Chris slammed in with a loud groan. “B-but how did you m-make it?”

“Wood.”

Tom hung his head, heart jumping. _Of course._

“Shaped it to you. Made it big. Sanded it down, smoothed it out and rounded it with oil. Always use lube, of course, my fawn.” His breath stuttered. “It doesn’t…hurt, does it?”

Tom shook his head, feeling his orgasm careening close. “No. The opposite.”

“Good boy. I worked on it until it was perfect.” Chris smiled and bore down on him.

It was a stunning and illuminating kind of stretch, the wood more resistant to his skin than Chris’s cock, making the slide a little less smooth but dragging with a rougher friction that made Tom pant. Chris’s craftsmanship was praiseworthy, spending all day on this small project. Curious, Tom reached a hand back and Chris guided his wrist until Tom’s fingertips touched the wood. The surface was so smooth, the wood so tight in him. He pushed down on the rounded edge and felt it move inside him, settle deeper. He gasped and clenched involuntarily, making them both move.

Chris plunged into his sopping depths, the wooden stopper plugged snugly inside. Breathless, chest tight, so tight everywhere, Tom could only rock under him and take it.

Chris took both wrists and anchored them at Tom’s hips, forcing Tom to lie with his face pressed to the mattress. He hammered in, loving the way Tom’s long pale feet spasmed and twitched, his small cries warming Chris’s blood to an urgent boil. He wanted him to come, _needed_ him to come. So wet, flood spilling between his legs to drench Chris and leave him sticky with his release.

He groaned, smacking their hips harder, Tom jerking with a raspy shout when Chris teasingly pulled on the plug.

“Oh, fuck, my darling. It feels good,” Tom moaned, lashes fluttering. “It feels so good. Don’t stop. I’m almost there.” He tugged on his wrists, but Chris kept them anchored in his hands, wanting a bit of a struggle, a bit of a squirm, and Tom gave it to him, shuddering hard.

Fascinated, Chris watched as Tom’s hole started pulsing around the plug and then the hot squirt of his pussy, tight, so tight he couldn’t thrust again. He shoved in and stayed there, looking in the mirror as liquid gushed out and dribbled down Tom’s thighs, soaking Chris and the sheets.

Tom went limp, face flushed, lips moving sluggishly. He always spoke endearing nonsense after a hard orgasm, and Chris was rather delighted that Tom’s orgasms seemed pleasantly debilitating.

Easing out, he flipped Tom onto his back and sank in, a nice slow drag that widened Tom’s pussy lips, the tender nub just above swollen and throbbing. He squeezed Tom’s hard cock gently and Tom keened a broken sob, grabbing Chris’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

Chris filled him and tugged on his cock, his weight and heat engulfing Tom, cheeks rasping together, Chris bruising his neck with hungry kisses.

Chris’s load was thick and overflowing, pooling out of Tom and coating the wooden stopper. Tom smiled and touched himself there, feeling the slick of his and Chris’s release.

“You…you devil,” Tom breathed, and Chris tossed his head back for a hearty laugh.

**

Chris took charge of washing their new toy. It was only about four inches in length, but thick at the base and tapering to a thinner, blunted point. Tom sat on the porch and studied it, shifting on his seat as he remembered how it felt to be so full and stretched in both holes. Even now, he felt the wetness between his legs and squinted around the yard for Chris. But he wasn’t there and Tom knew he’d return in time.

Sighing, he went into the kitchen to peel some potatoes for dinner. Considering their base but rough diet of protein and starches, with vegetables and fruit depending on the time of year, Tom was surprised he wasn’t fuller in some places. Since meeting Chris, he’d grown two inches, his muscles elongating and slimming on his arms and legs, still strong. But he was still rail thin, albeit with slightly more tanned skin. His metabolism burned everything off, and even though he helped Chris around the house and outside, Chris did most of the heavier work, shedding the calories and keeping his substantial muscle power.

The peeler faltered in Tom’s fingers as he thought of Chris’s muscles, the way they bunched to hold him down, the way Chris crowded him in, how heavy he was.

He moaned into the quiet stillness of the kitchen, a potato skin falling to the floor. He didn’t know how long he sat there, frozen, thighs clenched, feeling the wetness gather and run between his lips, but eventually the door opened and Chris walked into view, boots and jeans dusty, sweat ringing his worn cotton shirt.

Tom imagined how he might look sitting at the table, hands limp, holding a half-peeled potato, face flushed, eyes glazed on Chris, desperation plain. Because Chris took one look at him before striding in his direction, Tom jumping up to meet him.

They fumbled with each other’s clothes, tearing at buttons and pulling down waistbands.

“Mouth. I need your mouth.”

He shoved down on Chris’s shoulders, and Chris knelt at his feet, yanking Tom’s pants low. Once exposed, Tom moaned and thrust his hips forward, taking Chris’s head to guide him to his mound.

Chris latched on with his hard mouth, grasping Tom’s hips and rolling him on his face. Tom caught himself on the counter, head down to watch Chris eat him out, tongue delving, lips pressing to his core.

“Yes, l-like that. Oh god.” He stuttered forward, feet tangled in his jeans, and Chris rocked back on his heels until he was pressed to the cabinets under the sink.

Tom ground low on his face, eyes closed, knuckles white on the counter. Chris moaned and widened his mouth, blue eyes gazing up at Tom, soft with affection and care. A wide hand slid over to his front and took hold of his cock, tugging with a loving glint in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Tom whispered, caressing his long hair, gripping the back of his head to hold him in place. Chris’s tongue nudged at his clit and Tom clenched his eyes, shuddering, thrusting his hips forward. “I-If I come…I don’t want to—it’ll be so messy.”

Chris drew back briefly, lips shiny with his juices. “Come on me. Do it.”

“Fuck,” Tom rasped, and took Chris’s head with both hands. Chris let his arms drop, circling Tom’s ankles with a gentle squeeze, letting Tom fuck himself on his face.

He ground low and hard, his cock stiffening the closer he came to orgasm. It flopped over Chris’s cheek, and Chris’s eyes twinkled with barely contained mirth. Tom cursed and rubbed himself on Chris harder, feeling that coil spring loose in his belly. Liquid gushed out and Tom choked on a sob, eyes wide on Chris below him. Chris, who moaned and fluttered his eyes as his face was flooded with Tom’s fluids, the liquid running down both cheeks and soaking his hair. He worked his mouth through it all, tongue flicking and aiding Tom’s orgasm and making him come again. He screamed brokenly, his cock jumping and spurting a creamy white. More gushes and Chris let his pussy go, keeping his face upturned to let the stream coat his jaw and neck.

Tom was shaking.

His feet were numb from how hard he was pressing Chris to the cabinets, and when his vision edged with grey, he whimpered and felt himself tipping to the side. But Chris caught him fast and lowered him to the floor, where he pulled his erection out and heaved into Tom in one quick move.

Jeans tangled at their ankles, shirts half open, they kissed and rubbed their faces together, their scents strong and staining. Chris pulled out with a growl and shoved into Tom’s back entrance, thrusting twice before coming, his thick neck reddening with strain.

They buckled and lay spent on the floor, exhausted and sated again, both counting the minutes until the urges took them over once more.

**

Tom was in love.

He loved the new sensations that seemed to roll through him at all hours of the day. He loved how naturally wet he got whenever Chris was nearby. He loved how often they found each other all over the property to embrace and whisper their adoration.

The meaning behind his new body part wasn’t clear to Tom, but he certainly wasn’t complaining about the powerful reactions he was undergoing – even if it led to marathon fuck sessions in the middle of their day. Wood went unchopped, dishes went unwashed, pecans dried to useless husks out in the truck bed. But it was Tom who was being drizzled with honey, lying flat on the kitchen floor, Chris moaning and mouthing at his sticky skin.

It was Tom who was plucked with loving care until he buzzed with ripples of pleasure, Chris’s fingers sinking deep into his pussy, a steeple of three that prodded at his core as the plug of wood sat heavy inside him. Chris loved to find Tom in the woods, sometimes on an errand, berry basket in hand, sometimes naked and just waking from disoriented sleep, to spread his legs and fuck him with his fingers, figuring out that to curl them just slightly was to make Tom writhe and squirt freely, his cries sending flocks of birds into the air.

Tom was more accustomed to being stuffed with wood and cock, than not. And how he ached when he wasn’t, the emptiness feeling wrong and desolate. He would serve Chris breakfast in the mornings—eggs from in town because their chickens weren’t fully-grown yet—often pausing mid-pour, orange juice sloshing back into the plastic container. Spinning, he climbed onto Chris and straddled a hard thigh, grinding on it for much needed relief. Chris would drop his fork and wrap Tom close and encourage him to find his release.

Gushing into his pants, Tom would squeeze Chris’s neck and kiss his hair, whispering his gratitude. Falling on his knees he always used his mouth to care for Chris just after, swallowing his cum and licking him clean.

Patting Tom’s rump, Chris finished his breakfast and then went outside to start his chores, a wet spot on his thigh.

November was the anniversary of Tom’s brush with death. Three years had passed since he’d stumbled half-frozen and bleeding into Chris’s cabin, and it was with a sobering calm that he stared out at the tree line one evening to watch the first downy flakes of snow drift to the earth. A blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a cup of hot coffee in his palms, he rocked and hummed a lullaby Chris had taught him, during all the hours they whiled away in bed at night.

Chris wasn’t back yet. Tom had noticed he was missing when he failed to show for lunch, and thought to rest a bit on the porch with a warm drink. Darkness took over the forest earlier during these winter months, and Tom wished Chris would hurry so he wouldn’t be out so late in the cold.

The first glimmers of tiny lights appeared behind the trees just as Tom felt it.

His mug slipped from the arm of the rocking chair when he sat up, startled. It didn’t break, but coffee spilled everywhere, seeping down between the small breaks in the floorboards. He hardly heard the clatter.

Eyes wide, he palmed his belly, staring down at it, wondering if he’d actually felt that, or just imagined it.

But no.

A twig snapped, and Tom glanced up. There across the yard coming in from out of the trees, was Chris, naked and tall and strong and so beautiful in his wildness. His eyes found Tom, and he smiled.

Tom’s fingers clenched on his stomach. There it was again, as small and soft as the first time.

A fluttering, a quickening.

**

Tom lay awake that night, curled under the heavy weight of Chris’s arm.

If what he felt meant what he thought, then Tom knew their lives were about to drastically change.

He wasn’t exactly sure he was surprised. A body part meant all the connecting systems of its biology, right? Slightly nervous, he shifted around until Chris tightened his hold on him, still asleep.

Tom stared at him. The dim moonlight wasn’t enough to see him clearly, but Tom had his face memorized. The thick eyebrows, the full lips, the cheeks slightly rounded. His hair and beard needed trimming, he mused, tucking a long strand behind his ear, and he needed a bath, smelling of earth and grass and sweat.

“I love you,” Tom whispered, cuddling closer, wanting to be engulfed by him. Shimmying under his big body, Tom pressed their bellies together and silently urged Chris to wake, urged him to know.

Hours later, he woke with a gasp as Chris slid inside him. Curved over his back, Chris pressed Tom’s thighs together with a wide hand and pushed deeper into his pussy, groaning at the tight feel of him.

“You always clench up when you wake and I’m halfway in you.”

“You’re so big,” Tom whispered truthfully, leaning back for kisses. Chris placed his hand over Tom’s belly button and started to move, hips rolling slowly, letting his girth spread and stretch Tom wide.

Emotion bubbled up in Tom’s chest and he grasped Chris’s wrist, holding his hand to his stomach.

“I dreamt that you told me you loved me,” Chris murmured, nuzzling his ear.

“Was real,” Tom sighed, squeezing his thighs to better feel his full balls, his cock stiff against him. Palming it, he stroked himself easily, his clit throbbing just below.

“I love you, too, little fawn.”

He gave Tom his load, streams of his cum overfilling from the edges. Tom came just after with a small mewl, clamping down on Chris until his orgasm abated many long moments later.

“You are my life,” Chris said, staring at him across the pillow, the shadows of the collected figurine gifts on the window ledge falling over his face.

Tom grinned, lacing their fingers. “And you are mine.”

**

He paced. The length of the kitchen should no doubt have worn to the dirt beneath the cabin from how often he’d circled the table. Just now at the sink, hands bubbled with soap, scrubbing at a pot, he’d felt the flutter in his stomach again.

Three days had passed since the first time, and Tom had begun to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. But there could be no doubt about it this time.

The flutter felt much deeper inside him than he’d ever felt anything before, something tucked especially small and protected in his center.

Outside the kitchen window, the world was blanketed in a thin and spotty layer of white. Nothing was sticking yet, but it would soon. And before the weather took too badly a turn Chris visit the town for supplies one last time before the snow melted in the spring.

Mind made up, Tom shrugged into a coat and flung open the front door.

A very startled moose stood in the front yard, legs as long as Tom splayed wide in mid-stride. Its giant head turned in his direction, antlers dusted with snow.

Tom hurried down the stairs, waving an arm distractedly. “Shove off, go on!”

The moose huffed and turned away.

Tom trudged through the soggy yard, hand holding the lapels of his coat together. There was light coming from the window in the shed and that's where he found Chris, bent over his worktable, untangling a bundle of fence wire.

"Tom," he said with a smile, looking up. "Baby, it's cold out. I'll be right in."

"I have to tell you something," Tom said abruptly, and Chris frowned, putting down his pliers.

"What's wrong?" He swallowed hard. "A-Are you leaving...me?"

"What?" Tom scoffed, making a face. "No! I wouldn't."

Relief flooded Chris's face and he stood from his stool. "I still sometimes think that you’re a dream. That I’ll wake up and you won’t be there.”

Tom smiled. “Is that why you hold me so tight at night.”

“Yeah. What is it, love? You've been a little distracted these last few days. Are you okay?"

Tom crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, unsure how to say it.

Chris cupped his cheek, smoothing the flakes of snow from Tom's hair. "Is it your—." He dropped his eyes down to Tom's crotch and Tom burned red. "Is it gone?"

"No," he said quietly.

"Are you sick?"

"I might be pregnant."

Chris blinked fast, hand dropping from Tom's shoulder. His smile was slow and hesitant, confused.

"What?"

Tom shrugged. "I obviously have no way of really knowing for sure. I haven't gotten a period—" _a period!—_ "or anything like that."

"What?" Chris said again, a light building in his eyes.

"I said I might be preg—."

He was grabbed up in a bone-crunching hug, strong arms clutching him close. Wheezing, he felt himself lifted off the floor and spun. Chris set him atop the worktable, taking his face in both hands and kissing him hard. He returned the kiss with equal measure, anchoring Chris against him with his legs.

Panting, Chris drew back. "This isn't a joke? You're not having a go at me?"

Tom deadpanned. "Chris, I grew a vagina in two days, and you're asking if _this_ is a joke?"

Chris kissed him again. "Hush, sunflower. I-I-I don't know what to feel. What to do! Tom, are you having my baby?"

The look on Chris's face was so open, so filled with happy expectation, that it endeared Tom right to the bone. He smiled, heart swelling.

"Yes, Chris. I am."

Chris laughed a great booming laugh and lunged toward Tom, swiping tools and wires out of the way and pressing him back to the scarred wooden surface.

They fucked fast, even if Chris kept his penetration gentle and not as deep as usual. He caressed Tom's face, and then kissed his belly, stroking it with a big hand, callouses rough on Tom's sensitive skin.

After he and Chris had spilled their copious fluids, drenched down to their feet, Tom held Chris to him on the scarred wooden table, blinking up at the sky light.

“Sunflower, are you okay with this?” Chris’s voice was smaller than usual, full of quiet hesitation and like a balm, understanding.

“Chris, I never thought I would leave Europe and settle down on a mountain in Canada and become pregnant by means I absolutely have no idea how to name. What is it? Magic? Something in the water? Am I a mutant? Would this have eventually happened to me in London, where I would have been alone and ostracized? Is it the trees?” he finished softly, and they both grew quiet, perhaps already knowing the answer. “The truth is that, if I were to have a child by anyone in the world, I would want it to be you. Am I scared? Yes, definitely. But if I learned anything about living most of my life in abject fear of rejection and criticism, it’s that I can do more than I ever thought possible. And, I don’t know, I feel sort of…special. Like it chose me to do this.” Whether ‘it’ was the baby or something else, Tom didn’t know. But it had made a choice, and it had chosen him.

He shrugged. "I won't know until I know," he said quietly.

Chris popped his head up. "I could buy you one of those stick thingies. A test. In town."

"No," Tom said firmly. "Absolutely not. What’s the point of risking your safety over something we will find out in a fairly short period of time? You buy a pregnancy test and the town will hunt you down, claim you raped some poor girl and are keeping her hostage to breed and bleed out. They'll string you up, no matter what you say."

The hurt in Chris's eyes told Tom his guess wasn't far from the truth. The balance between Chris and the townspeople was delicate and fragile enough.

Tom cupped his bearded cheek, voice soft. "And even if they listened, what would you say? Look at me. I'm a man. They would never understand this."

Something cold snapped like a hood over Chris's eyes, an icy depth Tom had never seen before.

"They won't touch you. They won't take you away. I will kill them."

Tom patted his head and smiled, guiding him to the crook of his neck, a spot he knew Chris favored.

"Indeed, they won't, my brave bear."

**

There was nothing to do but wait. Tom's belly was as flat as ever, but every day he felt the flutter, and every day he willed it to grow.

He was terrified.

Three years ago he was consigning himself to accept death in these woods, accepting the loss of love and family, believing he would never love someone who loved him for who he was, much less have a child. And now, he thrived under Chris's love and care, falling into the role he had here on this mountain with him, darling boy, little fawn, companion and friend, wife and partner. And now a mother?

None of this made him feel any less like a man, but he was distinctly aware of the burgeoning feelings he was starting to have, what he imagined were mothering or protective urges. He didn’t feel feminine in what he believed the traditional sense would be, still identifying with his innate masculinity. But it was a gift, regardless, this sudden ability. It was all something he rather liked to ponder most evenings sitting on the porch, Chris chopping wood out in the yard, glancing up every other moment to stare at Tom as if he were the sun itself on some dark and bitter shore.

Tom couldn’t help but bask in the well of love he felt pouring from Chris. It was amplified and glowing, his excitement supremely evident in the way he cradled Tom at night, his giddy smiles as they hiked through the trees, hands linked. He felt part of a strange sort of Eden, all nature and nudity, a hushed enchantment falling over the woods, feeling a part of the earth, but not of the world as most people would understand.

Now that he’d acknowledge the pregnancy with a measure of confidence and excitement, it was like a gentle undoing. It was a marvel that he carried their child with him wherever he went. He hadn’t known that kind of possession before; even his possession of Chris was limited by the time they spent apart. But this little granule of life went where he went; it heard Chris’s voice when he spoke into the hollow of his belly button late at night, the both of them giggling in the dark. And every day, even if his body wasn’t showing yet, Tom was certain their child grew.

Chris was a tender, but overpowering whirlwind. He followed Tom around, shadowing his steps to the kitchen and down the hall, to the back room to organize the meats, and to the chicken coop, leaning against the door as Tom sprinkled yellow seeds into the cubbyholes. The chickens were grown now and laying eggs on their own, and Tom often carried a basket with him to collect the warm, pockmarked ovals.

If Chris’s lovemaking had been urgent before, pregnancy had calmed him only slightly. He was lasting longer than he usually did, taking Tom with a slow kind of earnestness, penetrating him in the middle of the night and dragging Tom into a devastating climax that left them soaked and weeping quietly, hands folded over his stomach.

“But Tom,” Chris started one night, whisper rough in the absolute dark. “Are you scared?”

Tom sighed and stroked the fine blond hairs on Chris’s arm. Apart from the first few days, when disbelief and hesitation had made him worry about everything that could possibly go wrong, the pain, and all that comes after, Tom’s ruling emotion was happiness. He’d pressed the flat of his palm to his stomach and imagined the heat of it reaching the tiny thing, it flipping with comfort and grace, and he couldn’t help but smile. And Chris’s reaction? Absolutely adorable and joyous, what anyone could hope for in a partner.

“I’m a little scared,” he admitted. “But I regret nothing. I mean, we _made_ this baby. Together.”

Chris’s eyes shone in the dark, and then he reached for him, lips seeking, both exhaling quietly on a smile.

**

December bore witness to a terrible storm. Chris had gone into town and returned with supplies that would last them the winter, and after storing them where they belonged, they stood together at the front window to watch the winds rage outside.

“My tomato vines will be destroyed,” Tom murmured, and Chris hugged his waist.

“We’ll get them back, yet.”

Tom busied himself with hanging his Christmas decorations, standing on a chair to reach the ceiling until Chris came barreling in and removing him from the seat, going on about how it wasn’t safe and that he would do it to save Tom the trouble. Huffing, Tom crossed his arms and stood off to the side, a small smile growing on his face as Chris draped the ribbons and the tinsel and the string of popcorn, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Dragging his sled into the thicket of trees, Chris didn’t return until nearly nightfall, bringing back a fresh deer, a line of rabbits, and a great spruce tree. Tom decorated the tree while Chris chopped the deer and sliced the meat to freeze and store. He could hear the hard whack of the cleaver, the wet sounds of the gutting, and his stomach suddenly turned. Whirling on his heel, Tom pushed outside and dropped to his knees at the edge of the porch, vomiting into the snow.

The door thumped open behind him and then Chris was there, kneeling beside him, clearly hesitant to touch him as he was covered in blood. But Tom suddenly couldn’t stand it, the separation, and he spun around to hug Chris tight around the neck.

The smell of deer meat continued to plague Tom in the early weeks of his pregnancy. Whenever Chris made stew or brought out a slab of the stuff to fry on the stove, Tom would pale and quickly excuse himself, finding relief in the only place he could, face pressed to the pillows he and Chris shared, gulping in great breaths of their combined scents. Chris learned to avoid all things deer and stick to rabbits and the bundles of frozen vegetables they kept in the freezer, which he would thaw and cook before they turned bad. 

As most good things, it happened slowly and suddenly.

Tom’s stomach began to swell late in December, a tiny bump that he found himself rubbing at all times of the day. He poked at it with his finger, felt the hardness, like a shell beneath his skin to keep the baby warm and safe.

And Chris was ecstatic.

He liked to sing softly as he whittled on the porch, or at night when his head pressed to Tom’s belly. He sang songs Tom imagined his mother had taught him, about the great wide sky and the jagged peaks of the trees, the windswept glide of an eagle. Handling Tom as carefully as he would a little bird, Chris liked to press his face to Tom’s chest and hear the beat of his heart, one big hand fanning over the rising bump just below.

He was ravenous. Tom’s pregnancy, a visual and physical manifestation of his entire fantasies, meant Chris could hardly keep his hands off Tom, often searching him out wherever he was on the property. If Tom should catch sight of Chris walking up the porch with a determined low brow, he was quick to unbutton his pants and drop them to his ankles just as Chris strode into the kitchen, cock already free and in hand. Spinning him to shove in from behind, or hiking him up on the counter to press into his wet pussy, Chris seemed to battle a fine line between desperate aggression and sweet gentleness. Tom, in all honesty, was fine with either.

Their sex drive amplified, they were stuck together in the house as more snow fell. Bathing was second nature, at this point. There was always water set to boil over the fire, a bucket of snow in the back room to even it out. They liked to sit in the tub together and cup their hands over Tom’s belly, growing still, wondering about the sex, deciding not to tell each other their guesses.

“I don’t care either way,” Chris whispered. “As long as mama and baby are okay.”

“We will be,” Tom whispered, the water rippling around their shoulders in the tub. “There’s so much to think about. Where will we have him or her? What if I need more help?”

“Don’t you worry, little fawn. I’ll deliver the baby myself.”

Tom glanced up in surprise. “But, have you ever before?”

“I’ve delivered a few piglets before. In the years before I met you. Can’t be too different.”

Tom scowled and sank deeper in the water. “Don’t compare my baby to a piglet.”

“Possessive, are we?” Chris said with a smile, hand snaking down Tom’s waist and between his legs. Tom gasped and arched, legs falling open as Chris rubbed him to a quick and violent completion, filthy promises whispered low in his ear.

“Water’s getting cold,” Tom mumbled, eyes drifting closed, and Chris, ever prepared, reached outside the tub where another bucket of warm water waited to be poured in.

Tom began to crave sweet things. He demanded honeyed almonds and preserved jam and the chocolate biscuits from the store in town. Willing to do anything for him, Chris climbed into his truck one morning while Tom lay curled on the sofa miserable and wanting.

Talking himself into acting normal, Chris still felt his face flame at the bewildered looks of recognition he got at the grocery store, and opted to keep his gaze straight ahead.

“Didn’t think we’d see him again until after the rains in May,” one woman whispered an aisle over.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Thought I’d seen the last of him for a while.”

“Shh!”

Head down, Chris collected a cart and started tossing in boxes of sweet biscuits of all flavors. He took the opportunity to get more batteries and towels, rubbing alcohol, and brand new scissors. The next aisle displayed nappies and baby bottles, bibs and wipes, those little plastic circles of bright colors for when their teeth started to come in.

Chris clenched his jaw and fought the urge to get six of everything. Pushing on, the cart vibrated from his hard grip on the steering bar. He already had planned to visit the next town over once spring came. There, he would get everything Tom and the baby would need: nappies and clothes and ointment and milk and baby food and toys and blankets and everything. He would get them everything.

At the last minute, Chris took a few packages of frozen chicken, hoping Tom would react better to that than to the deer meat. He bought milk and more eggs, bread and tubs of yogurt, cheese, salt crackers, chocolate pastries and jugs of orange juice. They didn’t need new toothbrushes and toothpaste, Tom insisting that they needed to be changed at least once a year, if not every six months. Befuddled, Chris had bought them a dozen each and called it a day.

His city boy.

After answering the cashier’s stilted attempt at conversation with grunts and zero eye contact, he paid quickly and left the store, feeling more than one set of eyes watch him go. Nosy old buzzards.

The drive up the mountain was treacherously slow. Already aching being apart from Tom, Chris maneuvered the truck over the ruts of the gutted road, which wouldn’t fill again until the spring rains turned the soil fresh. Pulling into the clearing, he saw Tom’s silhouette at the window, and silently willed him to stay inside. A strong bitter wind blew his door open, but he managed to close it and race to gather the supplies. It took him three trips but finally everything was inside the cabin and Tom was reaching to warm him up. They swayed in the entryway, cheek to cheek, and then Chris hurried to show Tom all the biscuits he’d bought.

They ate a quiet dinner of chicken and vegetables, and Chris was comforted to see Tom eat so heartily again. In bed with a shared cup of milk, they finished a packet of biscuits, Tom moaning like a little minx at each bite, before falling into one of the deepest sleeps Chris could remember. Tucking him in, he went back out in the living room and cleaned up in the kitchen.

**

From a distance, in the dark, Chris heard his name.

“Hmm?”

Another moan. “Chris…”

Chris blinked his eyes open and saw the sun was just rising outside. It was the middle of January and Tom, stomach a little bigger, was clamped to Chris with a leg thrown over, rubbing himself on his thigh.

“Fill me, fill me, fill me,” Tom murmured, appearing half-asleep, but Chris was already rising, already spreading Tom’s thighs, was already sinking in.

 _“Yes!_ ” Tom gasped, neck arched, clinging to him. Chris latched on and started sucking as he bucked his hips, careful with the swell of Tom’s belly between them. Soon, they would need to make love in only certain positions, limited by Tom's increased size and tender ability. For now they rutted hard, both extremely conscious of what lay between them, the vulnerable bump that held their child.

"My baby in here?" Chris whispered, palming the swell before him. Tom smiled, remembering when Chris used to ask him that before, when they would only pretend.

"Yes," he said, nodding quickly. "Yes, right here, love. Tucked in warm and safe."

Chris's eyes rolled up and he thrust harder for a moment before remembering himself.

“Gimme another,” Tom moaned. “Put another one in there.”

Chris growled out a low laugh and smacked the meaty part of Tom’s thigh.

“Greedy little fawn.”

Slowing down, he rolled Tom to his side and curled in behind him. Very carefully, with gentle prodding, he squeezed into his back entrance, inch by inch, until he could glide in from root to tip with relative ease. Tom was still so tight, and he blinked away the stars that threatened to blind him, focusing on Tom and his little noises. Steepling three fingers, Chris slowly pressed them into Tom's pussy, wrist bent to get the right angle. Tom whined and leaned into him, lifting his arm to embrace Chris’s head. Their lips met and they moved together, Tom rolling his hips to meet Chris’s thrusts, leg held wide to give his fingers room.

“Almost. Oh _yes_ , right there, darling. Deeper. Curl them just…just a little…bit. Keep going…yes, _yes_.”

Tom screamed and bucked hard. Chris held him down with an arm over his chest, pumping his fingers through the flood of fluid, the wet slap of their skin the only sound other than their breathless gasps.

“Good boy,” he growled, cheeks pressed tight. “Such a nice cunt my boy has.” He slowed his fingers, rubbing at Tom’s clit with his thumb, Tom mumbling and shaking his head. Pulling them free, he gently gripped his belly with a soaked palm. “And this. I love you both so much.” He took Tom’s firm cock, using Tom’s fluid as lubricant, and started pumping his fist. Tom’s second orgasm was just as intense, the whites of his eyes showing, his cry ragged. White strings of cum erupted from his cock as Tom vibrated from head to toe.   

Taking hold of Tom’s jaw, Chris thrust inside and finally came with a shudder, spilling heavy and long. The rush of raw pleasure burned through his veins, making him lightheaded, the room spinning in a slow arc.

Tom was already drifting, eyes falling shut, completely limp in Chris’s arms. The small blissful smile on his face told Chris that he’d given Tom just what he needed. And as much as he wanted to succumb the wave of drowsiness engulfing him, he knew how uncomfortable Tom became when he didn’t wash immediately after sex. Petting his hair and kissing his brow, Chris left him in bed and went to boil water.

**

Unsure if Tom would react well to gutting the pig, Chris told him to stay in the room until he was finished. Tom, wearing one of Chris’s white T-shirts, hurried into their bedroom, the small bump of his belly making Chris’s heart flip.

He dressed for warmth and slaughter, putting on an older pair of jeans and a worn jacket. The kill was bloody, but familiar and something he could do blindfolded.

It took a couple of hours, but he prepared the pig and started a fire in the woodstove. He set the pig to cook and then went to wash up in the bathroom. He was surprised to find Tom already there. With his back to the door, Tom stood naked before the mirror—the same clawed-footed mirror Chris had bought and surprised Tom with a while back. Turning slowly, Tom faced him, both hands on his rounded belly. He was getting bigger every day, his veined hands looking particularly thin on the swollen mound of his stomach. Chris worried he might not be eating enough.

His legs and arms were thin, too, as was his chest and his narrow hips. Hanging between his legs and just beneath his swollen stomach was his lovely and full cock, concealing the further treasure that was just behind.

“I think I’ll need some salve or cream or something,” Tom said quietly, rubbing the skin of his belly.

Chris came up to him, and covered his hands. “I’ll make you something, sunflower. So the skin doesn’t stretch too badly. For the itching and the dryness.”

Tom nodded and then glanced down at his chest.

“Do you think they’ll grow?”

Chris considered them. “If they don’t, it won’t matter.”

Tom was sharply surprised. “Won’t matter?”

"Sure. There are a lot of women, and even animals, who can’t feed their young. I’ll get us that powder formula if you aren’t able to, okay?” When Tom said nothing, only continued to gently fondle his own chest, Chris said, “How do you feel about them growing?”

Tom sighed. “I’m not sure. I don’t know how I feel about it.”

He turned and faced the mirror again, leaning back against Chris, who rested a cheek on the crown of Tom’s head and started humming a small song.

**

The room was dark when Tom woke. Outside, a wind howled and snow piled against the walls, cascading the world in white. Tom would have fallen back asleep quite easily but his pussy was a throbbing heat that lanced a spike of want up his spine and made him seek out comfort.

Chris lay sleeping on his side, one big hand on Tom’s wrist. Moving gingerly, the center of his balance already affected by his growing stomach, Tom rose to his knees and pushed Chris onto his back, straddling his neck. Chris groaned in his sleep.

“Please,” Tom whispered, cupping Chris’s head and shifting closer. He moved his pussy over Chris’s mouth, grinding down on it. “I need…please.”

Slowly, he felt Chris rouse beneath him, murmuring ‘wife’ and sliding his hands up Tom’s thighs, mouth opening over his pussy. Tom could barely see him over the swell of his stomach, but Chris was still half-asleep, eyes closed, lips moving almost lazily. Tom rolled his hips forward and set to do most of the work, determined for relief. Clutching the windowsill with one hand and palming Chris's head with the other, Tom rode his face, swiveling his hips as Chris woke fully with a growl, tongue snapping into him. He gripped Tom's waist, helping him move, the grind rougher, the pleasure sharper.

Tom cried out, leaning on the sill, thrusting forward and back. One of Chris's fingers pressed into his back entrance and Tom bucked, moaning in surprised pleasure.

Seeking better leverage, Chris yanked the pillow out from under him and lay flat on the bed, dropping his arms away so that Tom could ride him unimpeded. And Tom did, with fervor, Chris's moans muffled by his trembling weight. The wooden figurines on the sill vibrated and rattled from Tom's movements, a string of snow clouds curling over the moon, accenting his face in brilliant white.

The winding ribbon inside his chest started to pull tight, stealing his breath, speeding his blood. So close. Almost there, almost—

Tom pulled at Chris's hair just before coming, forcing him off his pussy and letting his gush spill over his neck and chest.

“Fuck yes,” Chris groaned. “Yes, my wife.” Filthy, and perfect, Tom swooned and caught himself on the sill, pleasure coursing through him like ripples on a lake. Chris stroked his belly, letting him finish completely.

He shook and he moaned, his brain feeling too big for his skull. Heart pounding, he relaxed in small increments, body unwinding, eyes snuffed with lights. He hardly felt when Chris sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. Moving quickly, Chris grabbed the plug from the bedside table and lubed it well, using his slicked fingers of one hand to breach Tom’s ass. Squirm. Another finger. A gasp and clinging. Tom opened up for him, mouths fused together, tongues bumping. Very slowly, he slid the plug into Tom, who widened his legs and inched higher up Chris’s waist.

“So good, my wife. Be still for me. I want you so full you can’t take anymore.”

Tom groaned, head hanging back, long neck exposed. One the plug was in to the root, Chris reached low he aligned himself with Tom's pussy. As he eased in, Tom whined and struggled in his arms, the plug and Chris’s cock so thick inside him. He felt them and wanted more.

"So wet, my sunflower. You're so wet for me."

Supporting Tom under his buttocks, Chris rolled his hips for him, the butting swell of his stomach nudging Chris's flat abdomen with every thrust. He sank in so deep, but Tom was rather tender inside and he winced, pushing weakly at Chris's shoulders, torn with greed for more and sensitivity.

"Slow, darling. Just a little slow."

Nodding, Chris let his pace soften, sliding their mouths together for a gentle kiss. Hand over his back side, he kept the plug deep inside, sliding his cock in and out of his pussy. His chest was still so slick from Tom's release, but Tom loved the feel of it on him, like a claiming of sorts. They moved easily and without hurry, Tom's belly rising and falling, brushing the hard ridges of Chris’s stomach. Staring down at it with wonder, Chris rubbed the smooth curve of it, hand drifting up Tom's flat chest, curling over and around his neck to drag him closer for more kisses.

Cock bobbing just beneath his belly, Tom reached for it and tugged on himself, crying up at the ceiling, Chris’s breath hot on his throat.

“Please. I’m close!”

Chris growled and shoved Tom’s hand aside, replacing it with his own and fisting his cock. He jabbed Tom down, sinking deep into him, plug and cock working to fill him hard.

“I’m—I’m throbbing. My pussy’s throbbing. I can feel it.” Cheeks flushed, Tom babbled, lashes low, arching his neck for Chris to bite it. And then he came, pussy and ass tightening, cock bursting with strings of white, slick fluid squirting over Chris’s balls.

Blood rising, Chris cursed and used both hands to roll Tom’s hips forward, Tom’s small cries of pain spurring him on. When he came, he stuttered Tom hard against him, pelvises flush, pulsing deep inside. He growled and held Tom fast, letting them fall to the side, laying Tom down with a nuzzle on his cheek.

Catching their breath, they stared up at the ceiling, the strip of moonlight slowly advancing to the far side of the room.

He eased out of his pussy, streams of white overflowing after him. Flinching, Tom waited patiently for Chris to remove the plug, dropping it on the table to wash later.

“I’m going to need a new mattress.” Chris said, running a hand over the wet spot on the bed.

“How long have you had this one?”

Shrugging, Chris looked away. “Since I was fourteen.”

Covering his face with a pillow, Tom burst into laughter, Chris smiling down on him.

**

It was February, or somewhere close to it. Tom would turn—or already might have—twenty-three years old. Without a current calendar, he wasn't sure.

Back in England, his mother would have by now no doubt procured him a position at a prestigious London law firm, where he would spend day after day pushing papers and attending dull court hearings and filing reports and delegating assignments to interns who would probably hate him for acquiring the position through a means other than the hard path they had to have taken.

Instead, he found himself on a quiet and nearly abandoned mountain across the vast ocean, living with a man he had come to love wholeheartedly, growing each and every day bigger with his child.

Their child.

Certainly not what he would have ever guessed for himself, but infinitely, exquisitely much happier nonetheless.

There was a lightness in his veins, a type of exuberance that made him feel aglow. Chris often seemed taken aback by him, pausing in his chores to stare as Tom made his way throughout the cabin, the bigger globe of his belly upsetting his balance, still learning to coordinate his slim limbs with the added weight. He managed just fine, bringing a bowl of honeyed pecans to Chris in his shed, clad in long-sleeved flannels and wool scarves, Chris’s red beanie over his unruly curls. Birds flittered in his wake, flowers and fruit brambles left in small clusters at the front door. Tom felt a great connection to the woods, to the creatures and the plants. He liked it best when he woke from his deep sleep riddled with strange half-dreams, lying out in the woods. The ground was still hard, still cold from winter, but the snow still lingered in white-patched mounds at the bases of the trees. Their child was growing, and with it Tom’s understanding of love and acceptance of the inherent mystery of the woods. 

And then one morning, with water dripping from the edges of the cabin and an elk crossing through the yard, Tom was in the kitchen scrubbing at the breakfast plates when he felt the kick. It was a small boom in his stomach, vibrating under his skin, a solid thump against the inner wall of his belly.

Tom gasped, eyes widening.

“Chris!”

Something loud crashed outside and then there were pounding steps on the front porch. Chris burst inside, nearly pulling the door off its hinges. Out of breath, he glanced every which way, alarm on his face and an axe in his hand ready to kill the threat.

Tom hurried to him and grabbed his hand, placing it on his stomach where he’d felt the kick only a moment before. Chris waited, eyebrows raised, but all Tom could do was grin, just as expectant.

“Give it a minute.”

“Are you okay, love?”

And as if it had simply been waiting for its father’s voice, the baby gave another solid kick against Chris’s hand.

Mouth dropping open, Chris gave a startled and ecstatic laugh, the axe clattering to the floor, both hands on Tom’s belly now, feeling around until the baby gave another kick and then another.

They stood in the kitchen, both laughing at their baby’s first movements.

“It’s really in there, isn’t it?” Chris breathed, smiling from ear to ear. “Our baby.”

“Well I haven’t been just getting fat, Christopher.”

Chris bumped their noses together in cheer.

Sometimes Chris woke up in the mornings and lay in bed beside a sleeping Tom, smoothing a hand over the growing jumble of his curls. Before he headed out into the cold, he uncapped the container of salve and spread it over Tom's stomach, which was distended enough to cause mild discomfort. It was the middle of March and Tom was about four months along. Chris wanted to make sure he was as comfortable as possible, rubbing the salve into his belly and feet, massaging gently. It was apparent that Tom was beginning to suffer backaches, sitting up in bed and arching to alleviate the strain on his spine. Chris did his best to always be available to help Tom up from a chair or from bed, but Tom was determined to be up and about, refusing Chris's advice to lie down as often as possible. In a show of compromise, Chris often found Tom out in his rocking chair, rubbing his belly and humming softly, eyes happily distant on the tree line, off his feet but out of the house.

It was even worse when Chris woke up in bed to find Tom missing from his side. In a rising panic, Chris would toss on a jacket and jam his feet into boots, storming out the front door calling Tom's name. Other times it was Chris who woke up in the woods at night, cold and naked. Hurrying to the cabin, he would find Tom in bed still, peacefully unaware Chris was gone, or sometimes he would be curled up on the porch, naked and unconscious, his belly glowing white in the moonlight. It seemed Tom's pregnancy had only increased the number of times they woke up with no recollection of how they'd gotten to where they were, and Chris hoped it wouldn’t lead to a problem down the road.

But what surprised Chris—and endeared him the most—were the moments Tom seemed to be the gravitating force of what made the forest buzz with life. It was a mildly chilly day in late March that found Chris out in the hen house securing the entrance against the more determined foxes that skittered through the woods. Walking around the side of the house with a bundle of chicken wire under his arm, Chris stopped in his tracks at the sight before him.

 Wearing only one of Chris's button-down flannel shirts, Tom stood at the porch railing, smiling small and curious at the squirrel that sniffed at his outstretched hand. Two butterflies fluttered around the crown of his curls, and just as the squirrel took the tip of his forefinger and nibbled at it like a nut, Tom giggled and inched closer, tongue poking between his teeth. The largest butterfly landed on his hair, its wings open and closing serenely.

Sensing Chris, Tom turned toward him and smiled, a blue jay flying in from the closest tree and landing on his shoulder, twittering happily. It laid a bramble in the collar of his shirt bearing the first yellow flower of spring.

Chris's breath escaped him. Tom was a vision, like a princess of some tale, glowing and ruddy-cheeked, a hand resting on his belly. Walking closer, Chris stood on his tiptoes and reached his chin up. Smiling, Tom bent at the waist, eyes falling closed as they kissed.

“Wife,” Chris whispered, and Tom grinned.

“Husband.”

“It’s still cold out, sunflower.” He touched his bare leg through the porch railing, drifting his fingers through the fuzz of blond hairs. “You’ll catch something.”

Tom shook his head. “It’s stifling hot inside. You don’t feel it?”

Chris headed through the front door. The house felt normal in temperature, but Tom was definitely flushed, fanning himself with a hand, a light sheen of sweat on his lean face.

“I think it’s the baby,” Tom said. “I can’t find a place in the house that’s cool enough. The porch feels wonderful.”

“Seems you made some new friends.”

Tom shrugged. “Have been for a while. Strange, I know. But they bring me gifts. Follow me around. It’s cute.”

“Making me jealous,” Chris murmured, nuzzling his neck. Tom’s belly was so big it forced Chris further back than he would like, but he stepped behind Tom and hugged him over his shoulders. He slid his lips from earlobe to shoulder ridge, adoring the way Tom shivered and rested his weight against Chris’s chest. Tom hummed thoughtfully when Chris roamed his palm over Tom’s nipple.

“Nothing yet.”

“You’re only what? Four months? Maybe the milk will come in later.”

“What’s the point of milk? I have no breasts to feed the baby.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, my wife. You and the baby will be just fine. The best part of me.”

They rocked together before the front window. The last snow was still falling, still sticking to the earth. In a few short weeks, it would melt and spring would set in fully and completely, stalks of flowers and shoots of grass bursting from the thawing earth to blanket the land in greens and pastels. Together, they would have the great rolls of this mountain and the blue sky as their own, and Chris wouldn’t feel so worried over their nightly disappearances into the woods. Spring and summer were more conducive to such ventures, and Tom was less likely to get sick from being exposed in the cold. But so far throughout his pregnancy, Tom was healthy as a horse. Apart from his short bout with food sensitivity, Tom had not even suffered morning sickness, or a cold. His cheeks were fully and ruddy with warmth, just as Chris liked him.

“You hungry, love?” Tom said, butting Chris’s jaw with his forehead.

Chris slid a hand under the loose shirt Tom wore, searching between his legs for what was there.

“For you, yes.”

Tom smiled and pulled him to the bedroom.

**

The deer pranced through the meadow, happiness making his hooves light, the soft down of his belly stretched taut with his pregnancy. White spotted rump, furry pointed tail, ears flicking to catch the sounds of the woods. His bear was somewhere behind him, a loving and warm presence, following the deer as it traipsed and stepped carefully so as not to jar his young still tucked inside him.

After a moment with his face turned up at the sun, the deer sensed his bear enter the glade, big-padded paws sinking into the loose soil. He shuffled over to the deer’s side, nudging the swollen belly and huffing gently. And then his bear went still, eyes on the ground beneath the deer’s hooves. He growled and stalked closer. The deer danced away, ears cocked back, watching his bear sniff at the ground. There were rough edged marks in the dirt, overlaid by the lighter steps of the deer, barely visible.

His bear snarled, sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. Frightened, the deer skittered closer, burrowing into the bear’s side, feeling tiny next to such girth, feeling protected.

The bear started to walk again, nudging the deer along with his long snout, looking back at the glade to make sure there was no danger. They disappeared behind a towering pine, the forest settling back into a calm reserve, as if they’d never been there at all.

**

March became April as the last of the snow melted. Creeks and marshes ran thick with fresh water, and drips of drew fell through the trees like a calming metronome. Green overtook the forest, obscuring the wet and soggy brown that had lain reign these winter months. Summer would abound, the long and warm days in perfect and ripe conditions for all manner of creature to gather brambles and weeds, nettles and dried flowers, to make their nests and secure them well for the coming of their young.

Tom was walking slower now. Waddling through the house, he often had to stop and lean against the wall to catch his breath and ease the strain on his back. Despite his size, Chris seemed even more determined to take Tom night after night. Their quiet moans echoing through the house, Tom would lie on his side as Chris pushed in from behind. Or even prop himself on all fours, big belly hanging beneath him, Chris moving in at his back.

It was always from behind now, Tom unable to lie on his back or straddle Chris’s waist, the weight was too great, the balance too off. But they moved together regardless, necks stretched to kiss and whisper, Tom’s orgasms becoming more pronounced, more sensitive. It was like being lifted into the blinding sky, ascending past what he knew of the earth and gravity, Tom so often falling into his climaxes and waking minutes, hours, or days later, Chris patting his cheek, asking if he was alright, looming over him with concern etched in his lovely eyes.

And Tom would be. Oh, yes he would be, soaked in fluid and ribbons of his own cum, heart beating a rapid song, their baby flipping inside him. And still Tom grew, and still Chris sang and whittled, still they slept and woke and wandered, and Tom swelled with the life inside him.

**

The deer stepped carefully over the jutting rocks, its weight centered down with the heavy hang of its belly. Soon the fawn would be born of it and soon the deer would have another to look after, as true to the fawn as his bear was to him, always watching, always careful.

Farther into the forest, the deer scented water. He ambled that way, his thin legs picking the tread with great care, walking slower in his girth. His bear was gone that day. The deer didn’t know where he was. But it wouldn’t be long now before his bear turned up. He always did. That the deer counted on.

Quite suddenly, the forest went still. All birds and insects went deathly quiet, and the deer lifted its heard, listening. Spooked, a warning scent reached the deer’s nose, something bitter and sharp, something strong and metallic. Sweat and cloth, powder and iron. Old blood. The deer froze, ears cocked, legs taut with tension. Whatever it was, was close.

Nothing moved.

And then a quiet click just before the tree behind the deer burst, pieces of wood flying and scratching the deer’s face.

The deer burst into a fast run, panic and fear warring over his heart. Over rocks and down a steep hill, the deer made to escape but was hindered by his unborn fawn and the sharp turns taken to evade his attackers. The rugged sounds of pursuit continued just behind him and the deer jumped into the stream, sinking to its depths, kicking and fighting to reach the other side.

Tom thrust up and broke the surface, scrambling up the far bank, hands clawing at the soggy earth, panting in terror. He coughed and choked, water spraying from his mouth. Wide-eyed with panic, he snapped his gaze around. Where was he? Why was he sobbing and searching behind him in dread? Blood dripped down his cheek from thin scratches on his cheeks. How?

“Please,” he cried, crawling to his knees, water dripping down his naked limbs, his distended stomach heavy as he cradled it with one arm, eyes rolling in distress. There were voices behind him, male voices, and the sounds of people pushing through the verdant shrubs. “Please no!”

Voices again, closer.

 “Careful now, it might be injured—.”

“I hit it. I know I did.”

“Shut up, Brandon, you’ll spook—.”

Abrupt silence fell and Tom froze, gasping into the grass. They were behind him, he knew it. He could feel their heated gazes on him, stunned and speechless. Expecting a wounded deer, they came face to face instead with a naked man big with child.

“What in the world?” one whispered, taking a step closer.

Tom spun around, kicking and clawing at the ground, his arm thrown over his belly in instinctive protection. There were three men, all wearing camouflage gear and holding rifles. Tom, stomach turning, grimaced and felt his stomach clench in disgust. How long had it been since he’d seen another human being? How long since he’d looked at another person that wasn’t his Christopher, that wasn’t made of golden sunlight and honeyed dew, who wasn’t of earth and sky and the power of lightning?

These men were vile. They were filthy and rank. They were hunters and bore the evidence of their game; dirt-stained faces, dried blood still flaking from their gear, sweat pungent in the air. Tom’s heart gripped in renewed fear, he scurried to put more space between them, the balls of his feet digging into the soil. But he was flattened on the ground, naked and heavily pregnant, his child in danger. His lip quivered, begging the men with his eyes to leave him be.

“Please,” he said again, trying to will compassion and understanding into their hearts. But their eyes bugged at the sight of him, mouths fallen open.

“That’s a…”

“Th-that’s a man.”

Three pairs of eyes snapped from Tom’s face to his flat chest, to his swollen stomach, to his sex hanging heavy between his legs, and back up again, disbelief plainly evident. They looked at each other.

“Is he—?” one started as the other two lifted their guns in a quick motion. Tom felt the blood drain from his face, and he curled over his stomach with a scream, begging them to stop.

But then a thunderous roar shook the earth and tree branches, rattling through the air. Birds took to flight with startled squawks and all three men turned, trying to locate the sound.

They were too late.

A giant bear came hurtling through the brush, great maw wide as it roared again, paw lifted to strike the first hunter. Sharp claws dug into the man’s face, felling him in one swoop. He flew through the air, back cracking against a tree, falling limp at its base. The other man got a frantic shot in, but it flew wide, exploding in the tree above Tom’s head. He screamed and ducked low, peeking between his fingers at the slaughter happening before him. The bear smacked the rifle out of the man’s arms and then snapped its wide jaws over his throat, biting down and ripping out his flesh. Blood gushed everywhere and the man collapsed in a pile at the bear’s feet, dead.

Another shot rang loudly in the stillness, and the bear’s side split from a brushing bullet. His bear roared, twisting its head to the last man who scrambled down the hill, panicked cries echoing in the trees. Glancing over his shoulder, he kept track of the bear, which snarled and gnashed its teeth, lumbering forward.

Tom whimpered as he tried to sit up, and the bear turned at the sound. Crisp blue eyes settled on him, a low and soft sound rumbling from its mighty chest. The bear shuddered suddenly and then convulsed, falling to the ground with another pained roar.

Terrified, Tom craned his neck to see, but where the bear had once been was now Chris, naked and trembling, side torn from a bullet wound, muscles trembling with tension. Chris lifted his head, eyes wild, blood and gore stained down his mouth and chin, his neck and chest, all red, all covered in the evidence of his kill.

“Chris,” Tom gasped, tears rising.

Chris grimaced with a loud groan, and then stiffened and sniffed at the air, cutting a sharp glance over his shoulder at the last hunter, who was still running for his life.

Jumping to his feet, Chris sprinted after him, legs like blurs of white in the green and wet forest, long hair flying behind him as he chased the man. Struggling to his feet, Tom waddled tenderly past the two dead hunters to the lip of the hill, brushing away blood from his face, eyes wide on the scene below him.

The hunter screamed Chris’s name, a terrified glint of recognition in his eyes.

Tom gaped. He knew Chris?

The man tripped and fell down the hill, eyes wide on Chris closing in on him, bloodied and savage, raw rage burning in his eyes, blinding him.

In one long leap, Chris reached the stumbling man and grabbed a fistful of his hair, gripping his jaw with his other hand. He snapped the man’s neck, the crack echoing in the trees, so loud that Tom flinched where he stood at the top of the hill, both arms around his stomach, where their baby kicked restlessly.

“It’s okay, little one,” Tom whispered. “Papa’s here with us now.”

Chris tossed the man down, body thudding in the tall grasses.

The forest sounds resumed after a moment, cautious buzzes and chirps and rustling, the woods recognizing the threat was over.

Skin torn from the bullet, brows bent low in fury, blood stained on his skin like war paint, Chris pulled his lips back in a merciless sneer, looking like an ancient predator, a warrior, a myth. And Tom’s mouth watered at the sight of him.

Swiping a shaking hand over his bloody lips, the haze of protective predator cleared from Chris’s eyes, and they softened when they landed on Tom above him. Tom sobbed out gratefully, heart skipping a beat, hand held out to Chris, who started the slow climb up to meet him.

“You’re hurt—,” they said at the same time, falling into each other’s arms.

“I can’t f-feel my fingers,” Chris mumbled, eyes falling closed. His movements were stilted, legs stiff. He looked half-conscious.

“It’s the adrenaline,” Tom wheezed, pushing under Chris’s arm to support him. But the truth was, Tom felt ill too. Like when he woke too soon from a deep sleep, disoriented and nauseous.

“Are you okay? Tom, are you okay? The baby—.” Chris’s hands cupped his face, both stumbling through the trees.

“We’re okay! We’re okay. Just startled.”

“They touched you. Did they touch you?” His eyes, hooded with fatigue, traced Tom’s body, fingers on the cuts on his face.

“They didn’t, no. A bullet ricocheted. Burst in the tree. Oh my god, Chris, but you were a—.”

“What? A what?”

They lurched to a stop, the cabin near.

Tom gulped. “A b-bear.”

Chris stared, blood and dirt smeared on him. He looked down at himself, lashes trembling. His hands were clawed, blood drying on his neck and chest, as if he’d bitten into something, torn something out. Voice rough, he shook his head.

“A bear?”

“You killed them. But you were a _bear_ when you did it.” Somehow, despite the absurdness of his claim, Tom wasn’t really that surprised.

Chris glanced around, exhaustion rippling through him. “Let’s go inside.”

But they headed to the water pump at the back of the house. Chris dropped heavily beneath the wide spout as Tom worked the lever, ice cold water splashing down on him. He scrubbed at his skin, leaving it red and pebbled, the blood from his wound washing down his legs into the dirt. And then he helped Tom wash, gentler with the water, careful of the temperature.

They murmured and they cried, grabbing at each other, hugging tightly. Sopping wet and shivering, they pushed into the cabin, Chris lying before the hearth on his uninjured side. Tom was quick to light a fire and gather the bandages and ointments, his balance unsteady on his tired feet. He patched Chris’s side, wrapping the gauze tight around his waist. The bullet had cut only a small chunk from Chris’s flesh, nothing too serious but still painful.

When he finished he helped Chris up, both grimacing.  

The hearth was still cold when they sat before it wrapped in blankets. Stunned and drained, they stared at the growing fire, soaking in its heat.

“Do you really believe—.”

“Yes,” Tom said softly.

Chris fell silent. A bear? How was it possible? All these years, is that what had been happening, out in those woods? When he disappeared and woke with no memory? When the scratches on his back bled from itches he could hardly recall? When the scent of grass was still fresh in his nose? When the images of a white-spotted rump faded to black at the first blinks of his eyes?

“What am I then?” Tom said softly. “You disappear. I disappear. What am I?”

“I think I know,” Chris whispered, and because it was his all his fault, Tom being here, staying with him, sucked into his world, fresh tears burst in his eyes and he threw an arm around Tom, pulling him close.

“Hey,” Tom said, touching his cheek. “No, my darling. Don’t be sad. What is it? Tell me.”

“It’s me,” Chris insisted. “This happened to you because of me. Who am I to claim you? Anywhere else you would have led a normal life. You wouldn’t be pregnant. You wouldn’t be turning into an animal. Wouldn’t be stuck with no outside contact—.”

“Stop.”

Chris turned away, a hard set to his jaw.

“You are not at fault, Chris. You are the man I love, and being such you have every right to claim me, as I give myself freely. Do you understand? I’m not stuck. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. I am not afraid of this pregnancy. This child inside me is _ours_. Do you know how special that makes us? How gifted? He will be of us both, the best of us.”

Chris blinked and a tear splashed down his cheek. He wiped at it angrily.

“Oh, my love,” Tom whispered, kissing his cheek. The baby kicked and Tom gasped, taking Chris’s hand and holding it to the spot. Chris’s smile was hesitant, still caught up in his anger and grief, but it bloomed beautifully as the baby bounced under his palm, a happy laugh following, sniffing at his tears.

“You are mine,” Tom said. “And if we turn into animals and wander these woods, I mean…look at me! I’m pregnant.” Tom laughed, smoothing back Chris’s hair. “There is nothing normal about us. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. Life elsewhere…well, it wouldn’t be this and it wouldn’t be with you. I don’t want any other life. I escaped my mother, and fell into love and security and comfort and understanding with you. I will always choose you, Chris. I can’t thank you enough, my bear.”

Chris covered his face with both hands, laughing low, unbelieving. A bear! Could it really be possible?

“No one will touch you, sunflower. No one will hurt you. I promise you that.”

Tom smiled, eyes closing in relief. “Okay, love.”

The baby kicked again, squirming and pressing against his bladder.

“The loo,” Tom laughed. “I need the loo.”

Chris helped him up and they waddled down the hall, beaten and bruised, and safe.

**

Before the bodies started decomposing, Chris and Tom went back out into the woods to move them. Tom hovered, forbidden by Chris to do any heavy lifting.

A squirrel rustled from out of a bush and scurried up Tom’s leg to sit at his shoulder, sniffing at where Chris knelt on the ground. Head bent, Chris was silent for a few moments, the savage and abrupt end to these men’s lives weighing heavy on his heart. That he killed them, with his very hands, was unfathomable.

“You saved us,” Tom whispered, coming round to palm his head. The squirrel hopped onto a tree branch and raced out of sight. “They were going to shoot me. And you saved us.”

Chris blinked and nodded after a moment, the muscles in his jaw jumping.

The first two hunters were easy enough. With the spring rains, the blood and gore would wash away, leaving no evidence of where the killings had originally occurred. Slowly, Chris hauled them down the hill to where the third man lay, twisted in a heap where he had thrown him. But when Chris saw the man’s face, grey and waxy in death, he visibly paled, stumbling back a few steps.

“What is it?” Tom asked, huffing as he caught up. “Do you know him?” He remembered the man’s terrified scream, calling Chris’s name, the recognition.

Chris cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I knew him. This is Brandon.”

Brandon.

The man with whom Chris had had a brief affair before meeting Tom; the man who had left him in disgust; the man who had no doubt started up all the vile rumors about Chris.

Resting against a tree, Tom sighed, trying not to wince at the hard kicks in his stomach. The baby was increasingly more active, knocking against Tom's belly most of the day. Like he was galloping or something.

"And you didn't recognize him, darling? Before?"

“I—I don’t really…” Chris took a deep breath, rubbing his face. “I don’t really remember killing him. Everything was hazy. Everything was red."

Tom limped over and hugged him around his chest.

"We aren't ourselves when we change, Chris. I don't remember falling into the stream. But I crawled out of it, terrified out of my mind. Confused. We aren't ourselves, love. And you were protecting us," he finished softly, letting the full weight of his belly nestle into Chris's waist.

"For you, anything," Chris murmured, kissing his hair and then turning back to his task.

He dragged all three bodies closer to the road, taking each individually, arranging them in as natural a position as mauling victims could possibly be, limbs askew, brush flattened by his boots to imitate the thrashings of a bear. In another few days, once the hunters failed to return home, a search party would be conducted and they would be found dead, killed by a bear. It was mostly true, in any case.

“They shouldn’t bother us,” Chris muttered that night as he oiled his shotgun, his axe sharpened and glistening already. “But I’ll stand guard either way.”

Tom bit his lip and watched Chris slip out the door with his weapons. There was no giant bonfire this time. Chris would use the cloak of night to protect their home, to protect his wife and child. The woods were his territory, and he knew every inch well. But no one came. And when he checked a few days later, the bodies were gone, yellow tape strung from trunk to trunk, glaring and foreign and forgotten. Yanking it from the trees, Chris balled it up and tossed it in the trash, abhorring the littering of his woods.

Now that they had more of an understanding about what happened to them when they slept, they started to remember things about their shifts. And that’s what they were. They shifted. Not every night, but most nights. Scents lingered on their skin. Blades of grass and flower petals. Hair still wet from the stream. And if they happened to wake among the trees, Chris would crawl close to Tom and breach him fast, a hand wrapped around Tom’s cock, their limbs slicked with dew and rainwater, bruising kisses on their necks.

June rolled in with less rain and a determined, wet heat, blanketing the mountain in warmth and verdant greens. Tom kept the cabin windows open, the curtains fluttering in the fragrant breezes. He was so big now, often staying in bed rubbing his belly and humming softly. His pelvic bones ached terribly, his knees and the tender arch of his back, all ached. Chris often ignored his chores to stay inside with Tom and rubbed his feet and calves, helping him bathe, making him food. And he sang to the babe, late in the night, head pressed to Tom’s belly, wide palm rubbing the swollen skin.

The heat was unbearable, Tom found. His body felt like a core of fire, sweating through his shirts. Mostly all clothing was intolerable, so he went about the house in Chris's shirts and briefs, running his hands under the cool water tap and patting his cheeks to ease the flush there. If he became pregnant in November, which is what he could only estimate, then he would deliver sometime in August, if not sooner, right through the tough hotness of summer.

At night, unable to stand Chris's body heat, Tom pushed at him weakly, sweat spotting his brow and upper lip, pooling in the hollow at his throat. Half-delirious, Tom would moan and shift around, murmuring for Chris, warding him away. Concerned, Chris kept a block of ice in a bowl on the bedside table, a moist rag handy to rub on Tom's neck and chest. He stayed a foot away, fingers on Tom's wrist, the pulse there fluttering rapidly.

“I won’t make it,” Tom mumbled one morning, sweating into his pillow. Chris was rubbing his belly, the friction both a blessed relief and a bother, the heat of his hands seeping into his very womb.

“You will, little fawn,” Chris whispered, using his other hand to knead into Tom’s back.

The baby gave another solid kick—the sixth in just the past three minutes—and Tom moaned, tears bursting in his eyes.

“He’s a strong one,” Chris marveled, pulling Tom back against him, trying to take any weight into himself he could so that Tom wouldn’t have to.

“Is it a boy, then?” Tom said, no strength in his voice. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, the baby compressing all his organs.

“What do you think, in here?” Chris asked, tapping Tom’s chest.

“Hmm. Well, yes,” Tom said, head nodding with fatigue. “If you’re asking how I feel inside, I’d say it was a cheetah.”

Chris tossed his head back and laughed, the bed shaking and rocking Tom to a blessed sleep.

**

They decided that the sooner Chris went into the next town for the supplies they would need for the birth and for the baby, the better. Tom was struggling being by himself for very long, needing assistance to get in and out of bed; even walking down the hall was taxing for him. His limbs were still very thin for the size of his belly, his hips still narrow enough to concern Chris, who was only a half-step away, ready to get whatever Tom needed. Looking withdrawn and pale, Tom winced with nearly every movement, the bones in his ankles and wrists sharp and pronounced, working hard to carry the extra weight.

Surprisingly, Chris was the first one to notice Tom’s chest growing. A testament to how sore every inch of his body was, Tom hadn’t realized the ache in his chest had anything to do with the coming of his milk, his breast tissue puffing and expanding just slightly.

“I feel so disjointed, so apart from my body, yet so encased in it. Does that make sense?”

Chris nodded and continued massaging Tom’s scalp.

“Are they tender?”

“Yeah,” Tom whispered, poking at his chest. It wasn’t exactly obvious he had grown breasts. It looked more like the chest of a man who had done a million bench presses, which Tom most definitely hadn’t.

“When Liam was born, I remember I used to see my mother rubbing the top of her chest. Said it would get the milk flowing. Would you like to try?”

Tom nodded, expecting nothing would really happen until after the baby was born, which wouldn’t be long yet. Would they get bigger? Would he have enough milk? Still, he appreciated when Chris massaged his chest, falling into a languid doze, the baby settling into a curled ball just beneath his ribs.

It was the middle of July and he was beginning to feel even more restless than before. The time was coming, and they needed to be prepared. Chris fueled up the truck and showed Tom on a map where he would be going.

“It’s two hours west of here. Another hour at the store, maybe less. Another two hours back.”

“Five hours,” Tom whispered, already dreading the time apart. Chris’s eyes showed his hesitation to leave him. “But you have to go. We need all these things.”

It was a hard thing to watch Chris drive away, taillights fading into the night, which they thought would be a better time to make the trip. Maybe Tom would sleep through most of his absence, even if the past few weeks were indicative of the contrary. Still, he went to lie in bed, groaning and shuffling toward the middle, doing little for the tension in his hips and back. The bed seemed huge without Christopher in it. Lately, they had resorted to only cuddling and kissing softly, and Tom missed the feel of his husband inside him.

Intercourse was too much sometimes, Tom so often breathless from his constricted ribs. Instead, Chris used his fingers to bring Tom relief, his pussy so wet and needy. Other times, Tom Chris used his mouth on Tom’s cock, bobbing his head and sucking him hard. Fingers in his ass, mouth on his cock, Tom’s eyes would roll back from overstimulation, coming on a flood of warm light and copious fluid. And every orgasm did wonders to ease the pain in his body, albeit for only a short while. And when the discomfort became too much, his body feeling cumbersome and graceless, Tom would prop himself against a mound of pillows and spread his legs slowly.

“Make me come. Please…make me come.”

Practically tripping in his haste to do as Tom bid him, Chris would hurry to his side, long fingers curling to sink into him.

Relaxed enough now, Tom snuggled around the pillow, arching his neck to let the breeze from the window cool him a little, hoping the five hours went by quickly.

**

Chris drove fast. Around curving bends and through wide plains, he pressed his truck forward, knuckles white on the steering wheel. His mind was plagued with images of all that could be going wrong back at the cabin. Tom could be in danger this very moment: balance compromised because of the baby, maybe he’d fallen and was hurt; maybe the townspeople had come to investigate the men whom Chris had killed and were barging into the cabin as Chris drove farther and farther away.

“Stop it, you shit,” Chris muttered, grinding his teeth and pressing down on the accelerator.

There was a twenty-four hour super-sized convenience store in the next town, and Chris found it as full of people as he’d feared it would be. Only this time, no one knew him and no one stared. It was oddly refreshing, and he reveled in the feel of anonymity. He took a cart and hurried through the store collecting what they needed: reusable cloth nappies, plastic nursing bottles, powdered milk formula, teething rings. He got blankets and more gauze, water purifying tablets, some needle and thread, just in case.

The section with baby clothes caught his attention last. They didn’t know what gender the baby would be, but Chris went with his gut, turning to the boy section. He added twenty little outfits to the cart, liking the darker blue and green and brown colors. But the soft yellows and reds were lovely too, and he included something of everything, including bibs and onesies and soft cotton pants and wool sweaters and knit caps and satin socks. Bath soap and shampoo and fleece towels, everything so small, so precious in his big, scarred hands. Chris held the tiny clothing to his chest and breathed in slowly.

Now that he was here, he stocked up on groceries, not forgetting the biscuits Tom loved so much. And just because he could, he bought a small mattress for the crib he would make, and a full-sized mattress for his and Tom’s bed.

“Will you need help out, sir?” the girl at the register asked.

“Um. No. But thank you. I can carry everything.”

“Sure looks like you can,” she said, eyeing his arms with a grin. 

Chris burned red up to the root of his hair and looked down.

“Someone will be by with a dolly to help you with the mattresses,” she said, laughing softly.

He paid for everything and packed his items into the back of the truck, tying down the plastic-wrapped mattresses to make sure they wouldn’t fall off. He left quickly, starting back toward home, driving in the dark of night, itching to be with Tom again. It was probably just after midnight when he finally pulled into the yard. All the lights were off in the cabin, and he hurried inside to check on Tom. Only Tom wasn’t in bed.

“Tom? Are you okay?” He was nowhere in the house, and Chris’s heart skipped in terror. “Tom!”

Had the townspeople discovered him? Had they dragged him off? Cursing, Chris grabbed his shotgun and ran outside, spinning in a circle in the yard. But he forced himself to think, realizing it was nighttime and they often disappeared at night when they shifted. He headed into the woods, stumbling in the dark, the gun’s barrel glinting in the moonlight.

Relief flooded his bloodstream when he found Tom lying curled in the stream, moist cheek pressed to the mossy bank. The water cut around the lower half of his body, submerged.

“Little fawn,” he whispered, kneeling and shaking him gently. Tom moaned and wakened slowly, blinking up at Chris. “You can’t do that to me, sunflower. I was scared out of my mind.”

“So hot in there,” Tom murmured. “Can’t sleep. I’ll stay here for a while. Come back for me.”

“Okay, little bug.”

Chris unloaded the groceries and supplies, putting everything away as quickly as he could, setting clean sheets on the new mattress, tossing the old one in the hall to take to burn in the firepit later. He laid the baby clothes on the bed, excited to show Tom, arranging them by shirts and little pants and socks and bibs, smiling down at the adorable display.

Taking some tools and the sled with him, he went back to Tom by the stream, still sleeping soundly, blond curls looking bright against the dark soil. The trees by the stream were tall and thick-limbed. Chris craned his neck and searched for the choicest one, wanting the crib for his baby to be strong and sturdy. Back in his shed, he would shape and sand down the wood, fitting the pieces together with bolts and glue, exactly as his father had made Liam’s crib many years ago. And with a fine whittling knife, Chris would carve images into the arches and grooves of the crib, of the trees and the animals, of the stars and the sky, of all the things that would make him safe and special, his sweet baby boy.

After loading the pieces of wood into the sled, Chris dragged it back to the cabin, and then returned for Tom. They walked back at a slow pace, Tom short of breath and gasping. His little breasts hadn’t grown anymore, and Chris believed they would probably stay this size. Already so tender and sore, Tom was hardly able to stand anything even brushing on them, but they would be enough to feed the child for a short while, and that was all they could ask for.

**

It was a strangely cool day in early August when Tom limped into the kitchen for ice. Chris was outside banging on something loud in the shed. He’d brought the newly made crib into the bedroom, and Tom had spent time arranging the blankets and little pillows and stuffed animals on the tiny mattress, talking quietly to his belly. He’d washed all of the clothes Chris had bought, folding them carefully in the bureau drawer he and Chris used for their own things.

The babe was flipping and kicking, and Tom felt an urgent pressure on his pelvis bone.

“What are you doing in there, little one?” he said with a smile, patting his belly button as he shuffled into the kitchen.

When he pulled open the icebox, he felt a trickle of moisture slid down his leg. Frowning, he tried looking down at himself around his stomach, but it was no use. He took another step and then he felt something pop deep inside.

He gasped, clutching his belly.

Water gushed down his legs and splashed on the floor around his bare feet.

“Oh god,” he moaned, heart pounding. “Oh god. Oh god.”

He waddled to the door but stopped short when pain ripped across his belly, tightening around to his back. Grimacing, he grunted and leaned against the wall, sweat sprouting over his face. He knew he was supposed to time the contractions, but he had no way of doing that and his brain felt frozen by the agony. After a long moment, the sharp vice around his waist eased away and he felt he could breathe, gulping in air and moving again.

“Chris,” he whispered, pulling open the door. The late summer heat blasted him in the face and he staggered back. To the left of the property he could see their abundant garden, bursting with flowers and herbs nearly as tall as him. Just beyond that was the shed, where Tom could hear Chris still working with some tool. He tried calling for him again, but his voice was locked in his throat, his lower belly tightening with another pending contraction. It hit him as he gripped the railing, doubling forward, a sharp cry on his tongue. Somewhere in the distance, he was aware of a sharp chattering of birds, the trees coming alive with bouncing little bodies. Vaguely, he saw a group of them swoop past the porch and to the shed, tapping at the window and singing shrilly.

“Chris,” he mumbled, a scream lodged in his throat as another contraction squeezed his middle. The banging from the shed stopped and Chris poked his head out. When he saw Tom crouched over the railing of the porch, he shoved out and ran across the yard, calling his name.

“It’s happening,” Tom lipped, no strength in his voice. When the contraction eased, he groaned and straightened, panting wildly.

“Shit. Shit. Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay, love. Come with me.” Chris kept his words low, swiping his thumbs across Tom’s cheeks, peering into his dazed eyes. Tom looked like he barely recognized Chris, so entrenched in his pain.

He took his arm and guided him back in the house, both pausing just inside the door when another wave of pain nearly floored Tom. He squeezed Chris’s hand, tears rising in his eyes, but he made it through it and they continued to the front of the hearth, where Tom had decided he wanted to have the baby. Rather than burn the old mattress right away, Tom suggested they use it for the birth. So Chris had cleared the living room and situated the mattress against the couch, and it had sat there ever since, clean sheets and towels and scissors and blankets ready beside it.

Moving quickly, Chris helped Tom sit down onto the spongy surface, stuffing pillows behind his back for support. He pulled off his briefs, which were soaked. Our of the corner of his eye, a squirrel peeked in through the open door, taking cautious steps inside. But Chris shooed it away and slammed the door closed. It raced up to the window and sat at the ledge while two birds and a butterfly hovered outside. Chris ignored them.

Red-faced and sweating, Tom laid on his back, legs open and gripping his belly with sweaty fingers. Chest shaking with broken grunts, he was fighting to stay conscious and sane, delirium just a breath away. He dropped his head back and whimpered, body vibrating with the worst pain he’d ever experienced, worse even than the animal trap on his foot years ago. It would start just under his pelvic bone and race like fire up his back, crippling his senses, unable to breathe or move until it receded like a turbulent wave, threatening to return any moment.

Hands shaking, Chris arranged the towels under Tom’s hips and then set water to boil. He couldn’t take his eyes off Tom, babbling, curls plastered to his forehead. His cries of pain were triggering something instinctive in Chris, wanting to make it better, make it right. Methodically, he went into the bathroom to fill a bucket with water, jaw set, skin tingling with anxiety. He needed to be calm for Tom, focused and strong. Tom needed him. With a stubborn brow, Chris washed his hands with a new bar of soap and returned to the living room, where Tom lay writhing. Chris made sure the pillows wouldn’t slip and urged Tom to recline against them, giving Tom a partial view of his belly and legs.

And Tom waited, gritting his teeth and collapsing back against the mound of pillows after every contraction, heart pounding inside his chest. His fingers and toes felt numb, every nerve ending seemingly trapped under his stomach. The skin on his stomach would split open, he was sure of it. Every constriction was like a branding iron squeezing the air from his lungs, lancing like a steel pike up his spine.

“Okay, little fawn,” Chris whispered. He brushed Tom’s hair from his forehead, smiling down at him. “Everything’s ready. I’ll check you, make sure you’re opened enough, and then we’ll begin. Are you ready?”

Tom blinked, lashes heavy with tears. “You save him.”

Chris frowned. “What?”

“If anything happens. You save him, understand? Save…him…first.”

Chris shook his head, denial settling like concrete in his gut. “No. Nothing’s going to happen. You will both be just fine. Don’t worry, sunflower. I’m here.”

“Promise me!” Tom clutched at his arm, gasping in pain. “Please.”

Chris felt his heart shrink. This man was his entire life. How could he make such a choice? But Tom pleaded with his eyes, clouded over with pain, the whites tinted with red from the pressure in his body.

“I promise,” Chris whispered, determined in his heart to save them both.

Tom sagged back down with relief, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

Bending over him, Chris checked Tom’s opening. “It’s getting bigger. Not much longer yet.”

Nodding, Tom wheezed and rested while he could.

They waited and waited, Chris kneeling between Tom’s legs to run his hands down Tom’s belly, pressing with enough force to encourage the babe low. He sang softly, Tom’s legs resting open on each thigh. With every contraction, they gripped each other’s hands and Chris breathed with him, guiding him through the pain, showing him how to breathe, how to relax his back once it had passed.

Tom moaned, eyes half-closed, face shining with sweat.

“It’s going to hurt m-more. More than this.” He arched his back and sobbed out brokenly, belly tightening with another brutal contraction. Chris pressed a kiss to Tom’s knee and held his hand, waiting it out with him.

Once it had passed, Chris knelt between his legs again and started massaging Tom’s vaginal lips, thinking it might help with the stretch. Tom’s legs fell wider, muscles trembling, shifting restlessly on his back.

“Feels…good,” he mumbled, gazing at the ceiling. Dipping his fingers inside, Chris worked him open, conscious of his pain, kissing his inner thighs and whispering how much he loved him, that he was so strong. “Hurts…belly,” Tom grimaced, and Chris crawled closer, rubbing his stomach, which seemed to alleviate some of the discomfort.

An hour passed, and then two, and Tom gritted and screamed through the pain, his center feeling branded with fire. At one point, Chris squeezed in behind Tom and let him rest against his chest, cradling his face in one big hand, kissing his cheeks and brow, letting Tom grip his thigh and shriek into his neck.

“There, my love. My brave boy, my wife. You’re perfect. So strong and perfect. Deliver him to us, my sunflower. Bring him home.”

Tom sobbed quietly, huffing and tugging on Chris’s jeans, long fingers wrapped tight in the material. They breathed together, Tom inhaling as Chris inhaled, Chris’s hands on his belly to soothe and guide his stuttered breaths. The pain would diminish to a hollow ache, like an echo in his sternum, until the next contraction hit, feeling as if his bones were splitting from within him, all of his organs smashing together, the baby burrowing into his very spine.

It soon became apparent as the third hour drew near that Tom’s contractions were following in quick succession, leaving him almost no time to rest in between.

“I think it’s…it’s time,” Tom said, teeth gritted. "I need to push."

Glancing down at his stomach, they nodded at each other and Chris crawled around to kneel in front of him, hands on Tom’s knees, widening his legs.

"Slow now, little fawn."

Planting his hands behind him, Tom inhaled deep and grunted on his first push, a long wail spilling from his lips. Chris peered around inside him, shaking his head after a moment.

"Again."

Tom bore down, his screams resonating in the cabin. Outside, the forest was deathly still, no chirps or rustles, every tiny furred ear cocked on the cries of pain from inside the house. More than an hour passed, and still Tom struggled, Chris bent between his legs.

"I see a head. Tom, I see the head! Push again, flower."

Curls a tangled, sweaty mess, Tom's head lolled on the pile of pillows, energy sapped. "Can't...I can't, Chris."

“You can. You’re so strong, my fawn. Just a little more, okay? Listen to me and what I tell you to do.”

Tom took a deep breath and then rose up on his elbows, wincing. When Chris told him to, he pushed hard, his scream guttural and terrifying in Chris’s ears.

“Easy, easy,” Chris said, holding Tom’s legs open with both hands. He slid them to Tom’s belly and pressed down. “Again. Now.”

Tom pushed, head hanging back so that all Chris could see was his long neck mottled red, veins bulging. Again he pushed, and again, limbs quivering, tears leaking out of his eyes. And just as the sun set beyond the pines, on a flood of blood and membrane, Chris finally managed to pull the baby free of Tom, grabbing his tiny shoulders and cradling him to his chest.

Tom whimpered and fell back, panting in exhaustion.

Moving quickly, Chris scooped the gunk from the baby’s mouth and patted his back gently, tears bursting in his eyes when the tiny and tremulous but powerful wails filled the room.

“What…is…okay?” Tom was hardly conscious, but he rolled his head to peer at Chris under heavy lashes. Chris, blinking through his tears, smiled at Tom, holding the fussing baby.

“A boy. Tom, it’s a boy. And he’s perfect.”

Tom, smiling for the first time in hours, rolled his head away and closed his eyes.

With a new pair of scissors, Chris cut the umbilical cord and dipped the baby in the warm water, rinsing his wriggling body of the viscous slick. Shivering and angry, the baby screamed like a tiny kitten and shook his tiny curled fists, Chris laughing in pure joy.

“Hold on, flower. Let me get him clean and warm and I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Tom said nothing, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.

The color of wheat fields, the baby had silky ringlets for hair.

“Just like your mama,” Chris whispered, grinning. The baby whimpered and fussed, eyes tightly closed, crying softly again with a pout. “I know. I know, your mama’s right here.”

Before wrapping him in anything, Chris carried the baby to Tom and placed him on his chest. Tom immediately roused, lifting his arms to cradle his son.

He choked on a happy sob, lips widening in a tired, but relieved smile. “Oh, Chris. Look at him. Look at him.”

“He’s beautiful,” Chris agreed, curling up next to Tom, wrapping his arms around them both. The baby was still mewling in stubborn protest, tiny cheek pressed to Tom’s chest. He trailed a finger over the blond curls, glancing at Chris in surprised wonder, like he still couldn’t believe the baby had come of him, had been made inside him, was his entirely.

“We did it,” he breathed, bouncing the baby weakly.

“His name?”

They had never discussed a name, perhaps both believing that to give him one before his birth would be to jinx the whole thing. But now, looking down at their son, they couldn’t ignore his namelessness anymore.

“Rowan,” Tom whispered. He met Chris’s eyes. “Rowan Christopher.”

Stunned, Chris blinked fast, eyes flicking between Tom’s own, and then he blushed and lowered his lashes, placing a soft kiss on Tom’s shoulder.

Tom relaxed against him with a sigh, bone-weary and read to pass out. But then he yanked his head up, hissing in pain, looking down between his legs again.

“It’s the afterbirth,” Chris said, taking the baby from Tom and wrapping him quickly, albeit it clumsily, in a soft blanket. Pulling a knit cap over his head last, he handed Rowan back to Tom.

“Afterbirth?” Tom asked, already imagining he was going to deliver another baby.

“Placenta and all the leftover stuff. Happens in animals, too.” Chris rubbed Tom’s belly again and out came the rest of it. He cleaned him well, depositing everything in a plastic bag.

The mattress forever ruined, Chris bent and carefully lifted Tom in his arms. The bed in their room was dry and warm, and Tom lay back against the pillows with the baby against his chest, stroking his satin cheek and kissing his nose, startled beyond anything that he was holding his son, finally.

“His little face is all scrunched,” Tom said, laughing quietly. “Like he’s afraid to open his eyes.”

Chris lay on the other side, their bodies bracketing their tiny son, giving him their heat. “Big scary world out here, ain’t it, little one? Not tucked in mama’s belly anymore.”

Rowan mewled and squirmed closer to Tom.

Tom and Chris stared at each other over his head, mirroring their looks of perpetual wonder.

“He’s really here,” Chris whispered, cupping Tom’s cheek.

“I can’t…I don’t even know what to say. We made him, Chris.”

“You made him, love.”

Tom blushed and ducked his head.

“Want to try feeding him?”

Tom bit his lip. “Think I should?”

“Let’s try it.”

Chris slipped a pillow under Rowan and Tom pulled him closer to his chest. They guided the baby’s head to one of Tom’s nipples, and Rowan’s rosebud mouth opened eagerly, giving soft little snorts as he smelled the milk. He latched on, gurgling contentedly as he suckled at Tom’s breast.

Tom winced and groaned quietly. “Ffff – frick. That’s tender.”

Chris grinned. “Frick?”

“I shouldn’t curse in front of him, right?”

Shrugging, Chris patted the baby’s bottom. “He doesn’t know. And we don’t curse much as it is. Only when I have you pinned down.”

Tom pinched his cheek. “Hush now. That’s what got us here.”

The baby pulled off and started crying, little tongue shaking.

“What is it, my love? What’s wrong?”

Rowan’s face turned red with anger.

“Is anything coming out?”

“I don’t know, I can’t tell.”

He edged his nipple along the baby’s lips and winced when he started suckling again.

“Massage down, like this,” Chris whispered, pressing his long fingers at the top swell of Tom’s chest. He rubbed at the puffy skin as Tom held the baby to him. Rowan calmed down after a few moments, his face lightening from dark red to a calm pink, grunting as he drank the free-flowing milk.

“Goodness, this is intense. He’s dependent on us for everything, darling. 

“Tom. You were amazing today. I’ve never been prouder, more in awe of you.”

Tom relaxed his head back, keeping his small breast plumped for the baby. The pressure was borderline painful, Rowan’s little mouth sucking hard on his nipple, the milk beginning to flow with more force. But he was drinking happily now, eyes closed, lips pursed prettily.

“I love you,” he whispered, glancing up at Chris. “I love you both. My heart is so full.” His face crumpled and he started sobbing quietly, trying not to jostle too much and upset their son. Chris leaned forward to nuzzle his cheek affectionately, comforting him, whispering his love in return. They held each other, Rowan squished between, a small hand fanned open on Tom’s breast.

“I can’t wait to bathe,” Tom murmured. “I feel sticky.”

“Maybe a quick shower is best.”

Tom agreed, but his eyes were so heavy, fatigue pulling at his mind. With the baby nursing greedily at his breast, he fell asleep as Chris watched over them, humming softly under his breath.

**

They slept in shifts. Tom’s entire body felt like one giant bruise, and he was often winded from any small movement. Chris was his muscle, lifting him from the bed, lowering him into the tub, holding Tom with one arm as they walked, the baby tucked in the other.

Chris bathed the baby, able to hold him in one giant hand, the other dabbing a moist towel on his small chest and rounded belly, tiny legs and arms kicking as Rowan yawned and squirmed.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Rowan. Yes, you’re perfect. Look at you. My sweet baby.”

Tom liked to hear Chris talk to their son, who seemed to lull into a quiet calm at his father’s deep voice. Lying on his side on the bed, he could hear Chris sing to him in the bath, or watch him rock the baby to sleep, Rowan wrapped so tightly in his big arms.

Rowan fed more than once at night, his tiny cries waking Tom as Chris knelt beside him and positioned the baby at his breast. Awake at night to be with Rowan, Chris would sleep sporadically during the day, sprawled out on the sofa or next to Tom on the bed, where Tom would lay his son on his back and watch him wriggle and fidget, a finger clamped tightly in one tiny fist.

And his eyes were so blue. Not the blue softened with flecks of green that Tom had, but a sharper blue, electric and bright.

“You have your papa’s eyes,” Tom whispered and Rowan blinked up at him through his long blond lashes. Tom, overjoyed, giggled. “I can’t believe you were inside me. For so long we were together, me and you and your papa. We’ll be together still, my darling love. Our special gift.”

Tom liked to run his fingers through Rowan’s hair, bright gold and soft and loosely curled. Each toe and finger, each groove of his kicking legs, the precious wrinkle of his rosebud mouth, the curve of his ear, the folds of his neck, the gentle underside of each foot. Tom memorized everything, the sweet baby smell of his skin.

And when Rowan was latched to his breast, eyes heavy with sleep and contentment, he still kept his sight glued to Tom’s face, milk spilling between his lips, humming hungry noises. His hands, grasping at the open air, Tom could tell were going to be big.

“Like someone I know,” he laughed. Rowan cooed and burrowed deeper into his breast, humming again.

Feeling sluggish and unlike himself, Tom moved gingerly, slowly feeling the return of his body and his control over it. After the birth nearly two weeks before, his belly had started to shrink, and by mid-September it was flat again. Equilibrium returned, Tom was able to do more things on his own, like bathing and walking about and puttering around in the kitchen. Rowan was bigger yet, constantly fastened to Tom’s breast, resting in the makeshift holster tied around his neck, nursing and gurgling as Tom shuffled from room to room.

He and Chris had a schedule after the first month. Chris liked to stay up at night with the baby, holding him and whispering. When the baby was hungry, he lay down with Tom and nestled Rowan between the two of them, Rowan finding Tom’s nipple as if by instinct. Tom often woke during the night with the two of them pressed tight to him, Chris’s nose in Rowan’s crown of golden curls.

Tom was with the baby most of the day, feeding him and lingering by the windows. He hadn’t been outside since giving birth, and thought today was a good day to enjoy the nicer weather before winter settled in for good.

Slipping into a pair of boots and throwing a light sweater on, Tom bundled Rowan in blankets and a blue knit cap. Rowan was very observant, big blue eyes shifting to study everything around him. He tended not to cry, only fussing stubbornly when he was hungry or when his nappie needed changing or when he was ready to sleep. But for the most part, he made quiet cooing sounds, eyes following Chris and Tom, legs and arms kicking.

Chris smiled one night, saying, “That’s why mama was so uncomfortable, little lamb, wasn’t it? Because you were kicking and throwing your little arms around inside him.”

Rowan’s mouth formed into a little ‘o’ as he watched his papa talk, fists swinging.

“Are you ready, love?” Tom asked, securing Rowan’s cap on his head. He opened the front door and peeked outside. The sky was blue with a light cover of clouds, the grasses in the yard swaying with the breeze. Chris had already picked the garden of its fruits and vegetables, letting the season take its course. But the plants were still tall, rustling in the wind.

Tom stepped onto the porch, the lingering heat of summer wrapping around them like a blanket. There was a haze hovering, late blooming pollen and insect buzzes that made Tom squint as he eyed the forest. Very carefully, he eased onto his rocking chair. He was still very sore from giving birth, but the worst of the pain was gone, leaving only a twinge that appeared unexpectedly if he moved too suddenly.

“There now,” he said, glancing around the yard. “This is the rest of the world, love. Not just the inside of our cabin. It’s so much bigger out here, isn’t it?”

Rowan was peering up at the sky, no doubt wondering what about it was different from the ceiling inside. They rocked on the chair, Tom laughing quietly when a squirrel hopped up on the railing and sniffed in their direction.

And one by one, more animals drifted toward them: two butterflies and a trio of birds, a fox that skittered by the porch steps and paused there, quiet. Far by the tree line, an elk stood tall, giant antlers hanging with moss.

Tom swallowed. “I feel like I should hold you up so they can bow to you,” he whispered down to Rowan, but he didn’t get the joke. One by one the animals dispersed, all except the butterfly and the squirrel, who parked itself on the rail and worked on cracking open an acorn.

“They like you,” Tom smiled, rubbing Rowan’s cheek.

This child, this precious baby was a combination of himself and Chris. A little bit of them both, there were moments when Tom couldn’t tear his gaze away from Rowan, enthralled with Chris’s eyes looking back at him, hair just like Tom’s running through his fingers. It was too soon to tell more than that, like whose smile Rowan would have, whose hands, whether he would have Chris’s rounder cheeks or Tom’s prominent cheekbones. More than anything, Tom was fascinated by his son’s size in comparison to himself. Chubby, dimpled fingers fanning over the palm of his hand, tiny bow lips pressing to his skin in search of milk, the long lashes spun like webs of fine gold.

How he loved this tiny person, his heart swelling with the strength of it.

Butterfly in his hair, Tom stood and took a slow walk about the yard, pausing at the garden and showing Rowan his tomato vines and patch of honeysuckle. The rest of the garden was mostly Chris’s to tend; here he grew his herbs and his flowers, squash and pumpkin and a line of corn, laboring all spring and summer to guarantee their stores over the barren winter months. Some of the things didn't grow naturally in the soil, so Chris often came back from town with bags of fertilizer to feed the ground the vitamins and minerals it needed to grow their food.

Rowan started to get restless as he walked back to the house, mouth searching blindly for Tom's nipple.

"Are you hungry, little one? Come on, let's go wake your father."

**

The deer loped agilely through the trees, no longer hindered by his heavy hanging belly. Somewhere, in a hollow of wood, his young slept safely.

Close now, he could scent the day, the mist of dawn starting to burn away the nearer the deer got to the edge of the world.

And then there it was, sunrise. Great waves of light rolling over the mountainside, bathing him in gold. The deer skidded to a stop and closed his eyes, body strong and lithe, the earth’s own. Greeting the new day, the deer pranced left and right, front hooves clacking on the rocky ground, bursting with the feeling of sky and sun and home.

**

In the middle of the night sometime in October, Tom felt Chris remove Rowan from his breast. Fast asleep, the babe didn't fuss when Chris laid him down in his crib, covering him with a blanket and patting his rump softly.

Half-asleep, Tom rolled to his other side, wincing when his chest tugged sorely. He was still leaking, but it would peter out without Rowan suckling on it. The bed dipped as Chris lay down beside him again, and then something warm closed over Tom's nipple, giving a gentle suck.

He gasped and tried to sit up, but Chris kept him down with a hand on each shoulder.

"Chris! Oh, darling...wait, oh god."

Unlike when Rowan was at his breast, Chris's mouth tugged a line straight to his groin, his body remembering Chris's intimate touch like a wick catching flame. He collapsed back, panting, a glob of moisture squelching between his pussy lips.

It had been over two months since they'd had sex, resorting only to long touches and lingering looks while Tom healed and they took the time to spend with their son. But now it was all Chris’s heat, and Chris’s weight, and Chris’s big hands on him. And his lips, pursed over his sensitive nipples, milk dribbling into his mouth.

Chris moaned, tongue darting out to catch the stray drops. “You taste sweet. Like cinnamon. No wonder he loves it so much.”

“God, Chris…,” Tom gasped lifting his head, cradling Chris to him. He continued drinking from him, Tom rubbing his thighs together.

“You’ll leave me dry,” he said, slightly worried.

Chris cast him a wicked glance, all teasing smile. “I most certainly will not.”

He drifted a hand down Tom’s hip and under the band of his briefs, sinking his fingers ever so gently into his pussy. Tom moaned and let his head fall back.

“Careful…please.”

“I will, sunflower.” Chris let his fingers dip deeper into Tom, wetting them, before pulling them out and skimming to his other hole, using Tom’s juices as a natural lubricant.

“Oh, yes,” Tom groaned, hips jumping forward. Chris rolled him on his back and then climbed over him, lips soft against his, mouth opening to brush tongues. Tom tasted his own milk there, sweet just like Chris said and he smiled, curling his fingers in his hair to pull him closer.                                                                                            

Chris rolled his hips forward, both still fully clothed, both nudging their hard lengths together. Tom's cock curved down over his pussy and balls, Chris's own erection hot and steely.

"I've missed you," Tom whispered, running his hands over Chris's buttocks. "It's been so long, my love."

"I've wanted you every minute of every day for the last two months, little fawn."

"I wasn't ready," Tom gasped, shaking his head. "But I am now, Chris. I am."

Chris groaned and kissed him again, arms reaching. Chris pulled Tom's briefs down his legs, shucking off his own jeans. When he fell over Tom again, Tom hissed and threw an arm over his breasts.

"They're sore still. Careful."

Using his thighs to muscle Tom's legs open, Chris settled against him more gently and closed his mouth over a moist nipple. He sucked and kept the milk pooled on his tongue, savoring his wife’s flavor. He breached him with a finger, slick from Tom’s pussy. It wasn’t enough, however, and he reached for the container of lube they kept on the bedside table. Working Tom open went slowly, Chris trailed kisses from nipple to nipple, suckling both, nosing along the soft underside, going higher to bite at his neck.

“Quiet now,” he whispered when Tom gasped. They both looked at the crib, where their baby slept on, a small bundle in the dark. Rising on his elbows, Chris guided the tip of his cock to Tom’s pussy and dragged it up and down, rubbing at his clit, pushing in shallowly, rubbing up and down again. Tom shivered and whined, his hard cock bobbing, a bead of moisture spilling thickly down his shaft.

Chris rocked into him slowly, never sinking in fully, only teasing, only wetting himself with Tom’s juices. But even the few inches he eased in were driving Tom mad, hands clawed on Chris’s buttocks, nails digging in.

“More, oh please more.”

Chris smiled and shook his head, holding himself up on both hands. Tom was spread wide beneath him, knees brushing his chest, cheeks flushed prettily.

“Greedy little cunt?”

“My cunt. My ass. Take me. I want you deeper. Now. Hard.”

Chris let his hips slow, both staring at each other in the partial dark. Chris was halfway into his soaking pussy, fluid dripping low to his other hole.

In one fast move, Chris pulled out and guided his cock to Tom’s second hole, covering his mouth with a big hand as he thrust in.

Tom’s scream was muffled, lashes fluttering, arms tight behind Chris’s back. Jaw clamped, Chris pushed until he couldn’t anymore, balls deep in Tom, whose empty pussy bubbled with more juices, slicking him still. Moaning now, Tom wriggled his hips and Chris complied, drawing back and pounding in. He kept his hand over Tom’s mouth, both needing to be extra quiet. Tom didn’t mind, arching his neck and digging his blunt nails into the hard muscle of his back.

“Such a good mama,” Chris moaned, nosing along Tom’s ear. “Take what papa bear gives you.”

That seemed to do it for Tom, who sobbed brokenly and clenched around him. His cock spilled sluggishly, his pussy pulsed and squirted fluid, and beads of milk burst from both pert nipples. Chris bent to catch them, desperate for his own release, but as he rutted into Tom, Tom started struggling against him, trying to get a hand between them. Chris lifted his hips slightly, stopping to watch. Using his long fingers, Tom rubbed frantically at his clit, his other hand smacking Chris’s buttock. Chris jumped forward, thrusting again. Tom’s voice, caught under his hand, was vibrating with pleasure, a long hum of _yes._ He rubbed and he rubbed and then he clenched, another scream caught in his throat. Another climax, more squirted release, more milk dribbling down the side of his breasts.

“Oh, shit,” Chris breathed, hips snapping forward, eyes wide to catch every flicker of emotion in his wife.

Dazed now, Tom moaned and slid his fingers between his pussy lips, four at once, slick spilling freely, wet and squelchy sounds rising in the dark as he fucked himself with his own fingers. Chris buried in his ass, fingers and cock twitching to rise again, Tom floated in his orgasms, Chris’s hand on his mouth making him feel more than anything, safe and protected.

_Keep going. Don’t stop._

And Chris didn’t, sinking into his ass from tip to root, heavy balls slapping against Tom. And with his fingers curled into his pussy, Tom worked his thumb over his clit, feeling that spiral of tension start up again. Yes. Again. Yes, please. _Again._

He came, bucking up, writhing on the bed as Chris tried to control his jerking limbs.

“Easy, flower. Easy now. Good boy. Such a good boy. Coming for me like this. Give me everything.”

Tears spilling, Tom nodded and rubbed, nodded and rubbed, and came, his yelps kept muffled, squirting over and over, tightening so good and hard, his milk dribbling, almost too tight for Chris to continue rutting into him. But he did, and unable to stand it anymore, Chris finally came, cock erupting thickly. He pulsed and pulsed, his balls so full from not coming in so long. He stayed buried deep, finishing after a few moments, his breath fanning over Tom’s neck, behind his ear.

But Tom was still rubbing himself with great urgency and Chris, starved for everything Tom had to give, wanted to taste. Pulling out gently, he scooted back and lay on the bed belly down. Anchoring his hands around Tom’s thighs, he buried his face in that wet pussy and rubbed his nose and tongue in, lapping at his wet folds, thrusting his tongue in, focusing on that nub that made Tom’s breath hitch and his hips quiver.

“Yes, yes, yes, come on. Harder. Oh yes, your beard feels good. Fuck yes, fuck me hard. Eat it out, so good. Such a good husband, you fuck me now. Now, fuck me.” Tom whispered and writhed and grabbed at his breasts, biting his lip to keep quiet. Chris lay there and licked at him, grinding his face in, moving with Tom as he bucked through two more orgasms, finally falling limp, sated and spent and delirious. Wiping his mouth, he crawled closer and lay over him, body snug between Tom’s legs, kissing languidly.

“I love you,” he said softly, running his fingers through Tom’s hair, sniffing at his temple.

Tom hummed and snuggled closer. “I love you, my bear. But um, do you think we can bathe before we bring Rowan back to bed with us.”

Chris shook with quiet laughter. “Yes. And change the sheets.”

“You change the sheets. I’m getting in the tub.”

Chris smacked his bottom as Tom flitted away, thighs sticky and dripping.

**

Rowan grew every day. So adorably fat and wriggling, he sat high in his papa’s arms as the first snow fell, chubby hands on the front window, blue eyes wide on the world of white beyond the pane of glass. At three months, he was using his voice more often now, humming and squealing and cooing. They would leave him in the crib when they had to attend to a chore together, such as righting one of the fallen fence posts, both bundled in jackets and scarves, Chris hammering the post into the ground while Tom held it in place. And because there was still no danger of the baby rolling or crawling away, they spread blankets and pillows in the living room to watch the fire in the evenings, Rowan kicking and waving his arms in the air between them, cooing up at his parents, who fawned over him with adoration.

Tom liked laying Rowan on his tummy, and the babe would grunt and struggle to rise up on his arms, turning his head wherever Tom went. He rolled over at four months, Tom’s happy exclamation from the kitchen startling Rowan, who burst out in immediate tears. Chris came running in from outside and scooped him up, patting him on the back.

“He rolled over!” Chris repeated when Tom told him the news, jumping around them.

Fat tears streaking down his face, Rowan held his arms out to Tom. Chris passed him over and Tom kissed a plump cheek.

“Oh, baby. It’s alright. Mama didn’t mean to scare you. I’m okay, nothing’s wrong.”

Not believing him, Rowan hugged him around his neck and promptly stayed there the rest of the afternoon, refusing to budge from his mama’s arms. He fell into a deep sleep at his breast, little hand curled into Tom’s open shirt. Chris came by to lay him in his crib, and returned to drape Tom over the kitchen table. Now that they’d crossed the barrier of physical intimacy again, they sought each other out more than once a day.

Tom came again and again, Chris pulling out while he squirted, shoving in again immediately after. They both liked it when he fucked through Tom’s orgasm, cock drenched as fluid spilled out and around it, dripping to the floor, grabbing Tom around the waist as his knees buckled.

But sometimes the sensation as too much, and Tom pushed at Chris’s stomach to make him pull out, coming so hard, he gushed and gushed. But Chris was impatient and thrust back in mid-squirt, Tom’s cries safe behind his hand.

They were careful. Now that they knew that Chris’s seed could take root and result in a pregnancy, they both favored Chris fucking him in both holes, usually pounding his pussy and coming in his ass.

Tom floundered in it. He was lit every single day with a well of emotion and pleasure, Chris’s passion often rough and hard, but his gentle side was always present, nuzzling his hair and stroking his neck, pinching his nipples and tugging on Tom’s cock as he fucked into his pussy or ass, always coming in the latter. Which Tom didn’t mind. His pussy was wet enough as it was.

Most evenings, they took Rowan out for walks in the woods. Wrapped in blankets and knit caps, the baby was content to lie in his Chris’s arms, blinking up at the spindly leaves of the trees, birds flittering and hopping along behind them. Spring happened in a slow melt of snow, flowers and grass rising from thawed patches of earth. Butterflies loved Rowan in particular, flitting around his head as Chris carried him outside in the garden, seeing which plants survived the frost, which would need to be replanted. They landed on his face and tickled his nose until Rowan sneezed and blinked in alarm up at Chris, who laughed and hugged him close. The weather turned warmer and Tom put away the blankets and the knit caps, letting Rowan roll around his crib in onesies and socks. In the late spring sunlight, his curls were cast in gold, a butterfly’s wings opening and closing.

There were mornings Tom awoke out in the forest, naked and sore. Other times it was Chris who staggered in through the front door, covered in dirt and grass, long scratches on his back. They hardly shifted together anymore, seeming to sense that one of them always had to be with their son.

Rowan’s first teeth appeared at five months. After weeks of fussing and crying and short-lasted fevers, a white little stubby tooth broke free of his pink gums. Now, when he smiled at Tom and Chris, it was with a peek of white, his cheeks dimpling prettily. Very slowly, they introduced solid foods. Mashed potatoes and bits of watermelon were his favorite, reaching his chubby hands until Tom gave him some. Still, Tom breastfed. What he thought would only last a few weeks had turned into nearly a year. It seemed to comfort Rowan to be at his breast, falling asleep there while Tom sat at the rocking chair. The milk was making his son grow big and strong, providing him the natural nutrients and vitamins that the powder formula never could have. When Tom’s milk didn’t dry—coming in rather abundantly—and he would continue to breastfeed Rowan, Chris mixed the extra baby formula with bits of potato skins and corncobs into the pigs’ troughs, which they devoured greedily. Tom knew he would eventually need to wean Rowan off his breast, but he felt it was alright still to feed him from his own body, the baby curling so trustingly against him, rosebud mouth pressed to his nipple.

And Chris still fed from Tom, too, licking at his breasts late at night, moaning like Tom’s milk was the sweetest nectar, back bowed to drink from him and fuck into him, both trying to be so quiet. It seemed both Chris’s and Rowan’s needs for his breasts kept them full and dripping.

They cut each other’s hair in the bathroom’s mirror, Rowan sitting on a pile of blankets on the floor, munching on a teething ring. He looked up at Chris, who was angling his chin up for Tom to trim around his beard, and giggled, eyes crinkling.

“He has your smile,” he whispered to Tom.

Tom glanced down. “You think so?”

Chris kissed his nose. “I know so.”

It was a warm day in June that found Tom walking from the kitchen to the bedroom with a glass of water and a bowl of watermelon pieces for Rowan. Apart from his tiny breasts, his body was feeling wholly his again. Even his still-present vagina was feeling more natural to him than ever, remembering how he used to wake up in the middle of the night wondering why his thighs were so sticky.

“Rowan, I have some fruit for—.”

He stopped dead, glass of water slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.

In the crib, round eyes blinking slowly, was the softest, most adorable bear cub.

It rubbed its paws sleepily against its face, having just woken up.

Speechless, Tom inched his way in a big circle around the crib to the window. The cub spotted him and cried a small cry, rolling forward on his paws, sticking his little snout between the bars of the crib to sniff in Tom’s direction.

Tom threw the window open and brought two fingers to his lips, whistling long and loud. The bear cub squealed and jumped back, knocking his bottom on the other side of the crib. It started wailing.

Chris poked his head up in the garden and Tom waved him forward. Approaching the crib, he stared down at the cub, who cut clear blue eyes up at him, reaching up with his short furry arms.

“Little Rowan,” Tom whispered, bending to pick the cub up. It was light and so small in his arms, but it snuggled into his neck with tiny huffs and Tom’s heart swelled with affection.

Chris came running in, stopping as abruptly as Tom had in the doorway. Turning to him, Tom needed to say nothing, both staring at each other across the way.

“Honestly,” Tom said. “I was expecting something like this to happen.”

Chris gulped and stepped up to them, reaching for the cub, who went willingly to him.

“I won’t breastfeed him like this,” Tom said, shaking his head. Chris chuckled and dragged him close, hugging both with his long arms.

It happened again a few days later. Needing to get the dishes done, Tom set Rowan down on the nest of blankets he made for him on the kitchen floor, giving him his teething ring to play with.

"Don’t go walking off on me now,” Tom said, rustling Rowan’s blond curls.

Rowan smiled and said around his two front teeth, “Mama.”

“Yes,” Tom laughed. “Listen to mama. I’ll be just here.”

He started on the dishes, the breeze from the open front door cooling his sweating collar. When he turned to check on Rowan, he saw the baby was gone, the blankets pressed flat where he had been sitting playing with his toys.

“Rowan? Darling?” He dried his hands and walked into the living room. Rowan had started crawling a few weeks ago, but seemed hesitant to stray too far from either Chris or Tom, liking to have one of them in his sights. They would need to be more careful with the fireplace and the front and back doors, closing up the room where Chris kept his weapons and gutted his kills.

But Rowan wasn’t in the bedroom or the hallway, and Tom felt his heart jump in panic. “Rowan!”

He hurried outside and down the porch steps, turning in a circle. Spotting Chris at the garden, he raced to him.

“Chris! Rowan’s—.”

But Chris held a finger to his lips and smiled down at something by his feet. Tom blinked.

A tiny fawn stood there on trembling spindly legs. Its ears were pressed back as it blinked around at the world, long lashes fluttering. It chewed lazily on a pink-petaled flower.

Tom gaped, not fully believing it was really his son.

Chris smiled and squatted down next to the fawn, smoothing a hand down its white spotted rump. Its soft ears flickered and the fawn turned, stumbling closer to Chris and nuzzling his arm.

“Let’s leave it here for a minute,” Chris said, standing and taking Tom’s elbow.

“What? Leave it? Are you mad? Something could swoop in and eat it!”

“No,” Chris said, peering around at the trees. “I really don’t think that will happen.”

Tom paused. Perhaps Chris was right. The woods and the creatures in it seemed to love them and Rowan very much. Maybe the baby was safe no matter if he was in or out of the cabin. Regardless, he looked over his shoulder at the little fawn, who stood on its shaky legs, blinking in the bright sunlight. Chris guided him into his shed and closed the door.

When they walked out a few minutes later, they found Rowan rolling around on his back on a patch of crushed flowers, holding his own feet and giggling as a butterfly flittered over his face.

“Darling,” Tom gasped, picking him up and hugging him tight.

“Mama, mama,” Rowan sang, chubby hands crawling into Tom’s hair, so like his own curls. He smiled at Chris and reached his arms. “Papa!”

Laughing, Chris took him and tossed him in the air, the baby’s happy squeals echoing in the glade.

Tom stood by and watched, a smile on his own face. But his hand on his heart showed just how afraid he’d been, discovering this new truth about their son. He could change into what both Tom and Chris embodied: a bear and a fawn. Would that be all he could change into? Would he be able to control it as he got older? Even now, he and Chris didn’t seem able to control when they shifted, even if they seemed to know on some subconscious level that they couldn’t shift at the same time and leave Rowan alone in the cabin, especially at night when most of their shifts took place. There was that one time Chris had gone missing just after breakfast and Tom went outside with Rowan on his hip to collect the dried pecans, only to stumble on a giant bear by the pick up truck.

Rowan had gone still in his arms, eyes wide on the bear, who sniffed and huffed as it lumbered closer to them. Tom, never having been this close to the bear before, had simply stood still as the bear stopped before them and nudged its moist nose along Rowan’s foot.

“Papa, papa,” Rowan whispered, ducking his head shyly against Tom’s neck, little voice low in his surprise.

“Yes, it’s papa,” Tom whispered back. He reached forward and scratched the bear around his ears, smiling at the deep sound it made in his big chest.

If Rowan shifting into a bear and a fawn so young in life was any indicator, Tom could only hope that it meant he would be able to control his gift so that it wouldn’t interrupt his life or frighten him in any way

**

It was a full year after Rowan was born that Tom started to wean him off his breast milk. At first the baby would look at him in question, as if his big blue eyes were asking why he couldn’t drink from his mama as often anymore. But eating more solid foods kept his hunger at bay and the breast milk was mainly about comfort and habit by that point. Soon enough, his milk dried and his breasts shrank, leaving him with the flat chest he had grown up knowing all his life. He didn’t miss them that much. He enjoyed the bonding it had allowed with his son, nourishing him from his body, watching him fall asleep tucked up against him, Rowan’s soft skin flushed with heat and comfort. And Chris’s enjoyment of them had been rather wonderful too. But apart from the lack of milk and the slight fullness of his chest while breastfeeding, Chris’s mouth on his nipples gave him the same sensation, the same pleasure. No longer having breasts made him feel more comfortable in his own body, but he hadn’t minded in the least when they were a constant part of him. His pussy, however, seemed there to stay, and he was growing rather fond of it and the fun he had with Chris in their moments of privacy.

Rowan was starting to show a husky build even at two years old, and Tom had a feeling that he would grow to be of Chris’s size and strength. It was often that they heard his stout little legs tottering after them around the cabin, the pitter patter of his feet as he crawled out of his crib and over to the bed. He would tug on Chris’s ear until his papa woke and pulled him into bed with them. Snuggled between them, he would sleep with his rosebud mouth parted, little chest rising and falling, a chubby hand in Tom’s hair to ensure his mama wouldn’t escape without his knowing.

Babbling more now, Rowan was picking up all sorts of words. ‘Twee’ for tree, ‘flowa’ for flower, ‘birb’ for bird, ‘mash’ for mashed potatoes, ‘roan’ for Rowan. And that’s what Chris had started calling him as his son stumbled around after him on his chubby legs, his Rowan Roan.

Bending to hold his son’s hand, Chris would walk him around the glade, squatting to show him the flowers and the herbs in the garden, telling him their names and listening patiently with an understanding nod as Rowan babbled right back to him, speaking a garbled language as if Chris knew exactly what he was saying.

His excited childlike wonder at everything meant he brought plenty of gifts to Tom, things he had found outside with his papa, and sometimes as he wandered alone around the glade. Grunting his way up the porch steps, his husky little legs working to keep him balanced, Rowan would burst into the cabin looking for Tom.

“Mama! Mama!”

In his palm would be the oddest and sweetest things, his gifts to Tom: those small conch shells that sometimes formed in the dark and rich soil of the garden, a fat green worm still inching its way over his sticky skin, a bird feather.

“Oh goodness, Rowan! These are lovely, sweetheart. Have you shown your papa yet?”

Grinning and shaking with excitement, Rowan would shake his head, golden curls long. Running back outside, he would go find Chris, whom Tom could see out the kitchen window would sink to his knees and exclaim happily at his son’s findings, patting his hair and kissing his sweaty cheek.

It was early September when Chris suggested they take a walk into the forest. Rowan had just turned four, and was looking more and more like his papa every day. Jumping around Chris’s legs, arms up and demanding to be lifted, Rowan had woken them extremely early with moist kisses and quiet giggles.

“I have an idea,” Chris said, going to sit next to Tom still in bed.

“What, papa?” Rowan ran his hands over Chris’s silky straight hair, kissing his cheek quickly.

“You wanna go see the sun?”

Rowan grinned, eyebrows raised. “The sun, papa?”

“The sun!” He turned to Tom and rubbed his backside through the blanket. “C’mon, mama. Up you get.”

“Up, mama! Up!” Rowan pounced on Tom’s body and hugged him round the neck, nudging his nose in an Eskimo kiss.

Tom laughed and hugged him tight, sitting up and rocking Rowan in his arms.

“Remember when you were a baby? I used to rock you just like this.”

Rowan squirmed and giggled loudly. “I not a baby!”

“Yes, you are! You’re my baby!”

Tom tickled him and they both fell shrieking to the bed, Chris smiling over them.

The cold hadn’t set in yet, so they dressed in jeans and simple T-shirts, Rowan going out in only shorts. He liked being barefoot, pattering around the cabin or out in the grass, running through the trees and splashing in the creek.

Taking Tom’s hand, Chris closed the cabin door and followed Rowan into the woods, two butterflies in his wake already. It was early dawn, the trees still swathed in mist and shadow. Rowan kept close to them, running around their legs or stopping to examine a flower patch, murmuring down at them as he stroked their petals softly. Out of breath, he reached his arms up to Chris, who bent and scooped him up.

“We’re almost there, my Rowan Roan. Are you ready for the sun?”

Rowan tucked his head against Chris’s neck, murmuring, “Yes, papa.”

The overhanging cliff on the east side of the mountain was sharp-edged and steep. They stopped at a safe distance, a line of water cutting through the wide valley below them. They waited, Chris’s arm around Tom’s shoulder, Tom leaning into him with a sleepy sway. Rowan hummed in his ear and played with a strand of his hair. And like a crisp ribbon or silken gold, the sun started to edge over the horizon, just a sliver at first, just a line of light. Rowan gasped and pointed, his curls bouncing.

“Mama! Papa!”

“It’s the sun, my angel,” Tom whispered, taking Rowan in his arms, holding him cheek to cheek.

Standing in mute respect of it, they stared at the sunrise, cascading like a blanket of fire over the valley, bathing their faces in warmth. Rowan slowly went limp in Tom’s arms, fallen asleep at his cheek. Tucking him into the crook of his arm, Tom smiled down at their son, whose golden brows were knit in a childlike frown.

Chris wrapped them both close, lips on Tom’s temple, a whisper so soft on his skin.

When would their lives here end, Tom wondered? Rowan was growing rapidly, but Tom and Chris looked the same, and he had a suspicion that something about the mountain, about the water, about the air or even the lights they saw floating in the foreground was making them stay as they were since the beginning. Not that he cared. He had his husband and he had his son.

And the sky. They would always have the sky.

           

 

_Epilogue:_

 

William walked down the street to the pharmacy. His osteoporosis medication was filled and ready to be picked up, and since his daughter had passed away last year there was no one to pick up his prescriptions for him. It was fine. His legs and bones might be weak, but his cane was strong, his trustworthy support, and he could make the trip down the few streets from his house to the center of town where the pharmacy was. He remembered when he used to work the cashier at the grocery store, so many decades ago. He was an old man now, and still living in the same town with the same people and the same stories. Just that morning he’d heard the baker telling a customer that his brother-in-law has a cousin who went into the forest to collect a certain berry that supposedly helped with weight loss, or some mumbo jumbo. The young man had come running back only an hour later, stuttering and gasping about how he’d seen a giant horse up on the mountain, with a coat of soft cream and a mane of shining gold.

“A horse!” the baker exclaimed, shaking his head. “Might as well have been a bloody unicorn for all the sense it would make. We don’t got horses round these parts, much less a giant one that lives on a mountain.”

Not many people ventured into the forest anymore, especially not after those three hunters were mauled to death by that bear. Even the inn had gone out of business, any travelers warned away to safer hotels a few miles further on.

No. No one went there, and no one was ever seen coming out. William often wondered what had happened to that strange man who used to live in the cabin up there. Not very many people liked him. Called him a beast, a freak. Steered clear of him when he came into town. But it had been many years since the man had been seen, so many of the people who would have remembered him were by now old and senile or dead.

Still. It was yet another story to add to the rest of them: bears and deer walking about together, a low-slinking wolf of creamy gold fur, and now a horse. The whole place was spooky, and not a day went by that William didn’t think of that poor lad who’d followed his directions to the Blue Bear Inn back when he was a kid and never made it there alive. No doubt frozen to death in the snow storm that had hit only a few hours after he’d left the market. Such a shame. Seemed like a nice young boy, too. Out on an adventure, exploring the world, just beginning his life. Pity.

William turned the corner and paused, staring at the front of the grocery store in a haze of melancholy. Where had his life gone? Why hadn’t he traveled when he had the chance? What might he have experienced if he’d only convinced himself to go? But it’s hard to see the years go by until they are finally gone and one is left old and gray, like him. As he stared at the entrance, the front sliding glass doors slid open and out walked two men.

William did a double take, his weak heart stuttering into a frantic beat. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. One looked nearly identical to the strange man of the long hair, the one from the mountain, whose shoulders William still remembered had been wide and muscled, impressive in all his burly silence. Beside him, his companion had curly blond hair, a small wriggling bundle wrapped in his arms. For the life of him, the curly-haired man was the spitting image of the boy who had disappeared all those years ago. Mouth parted in shock, William watched the two men load the baby and their groceries into a dark blue pick up truck and then climb in themselves. They drove away and toward the road that led around the mountain.

He blinked fast, swallowing past his disbelief, fuzzy mind reeling. More than sixty years have passed since his chance encounters with both men, and the two he’d just seen looked like they hadn’t aged a single day.

“Impossible,” William muttered, inching his cane over the pockmarked sidewalk, determined to get his prescription and return to the relative safety of his home, where tales of phantom wolves and massive horses and killer bears didn’t exist.

 

 

End. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Title is taken from the quote by Elke River: "You are flowers in my stomach. Cutting me open nightly, blooming through the cracks of my ribs. I only want to be the sun for you."


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